" "To-morrow will be too late," replied the widow, in a hollow voice, "I feel it will. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. . "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side.
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