He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
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