room. He had nothing but his trunk to take to it.

In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel, where she was taking
a nap (she certainly needed it, for she had spent the night in a
wooden rocking-chair at the milk-woman's), and I strolled down to
the river to take a last look at the remains of old Rudder Grange.

I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to the
canal-boat, and thought how it had been worn by my feet more than
any other's, and how gladly I had walked that way, so often during
that delightful summer. I forgot all that had been disagreeable,
and thought only of the happy times we had had.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and the wind had entirely died
away. When I came within sight of our old home, it presented a
doleful appearance. The bow had drifted out into the river, and
was almost entirely under water. The stern stuck up in a mournful
and ridiculous manner, with its keel, instead of its broadside,
presented to the view of persons on the shore. As I neared the
boat I heard a voice. I stopped and listened. There was no one in
sight. Could the sounds come from the boat? I concluded that it
must be so, and I walked up closer. Then I heard distinctly the
words:

"He grasp ed her by the thro at and yell ed, swear to me thou nev
er wilt re veal my se cret, or thy hot heart's blood shall stain
this mar bel fib or; she gave one gry vy ous gasp and--"

It was Pomona!