On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. In all his life he had never realized a dream; but the thought had never before hurt him.
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