THE PASSING OF PATRICK LOVELL

Autumn had given place to winter, and a bitter northeast wind was
tearing through the pines, shrieking, as it fled, like the cry of a lost
soul. The eerie sound of it served in some indefinable way to emphasise
the cosy warmth and security of the room where Sara and her uncle were
sitting, their chairs drawn close up to the log fire which burned on the
wide, old-fashioned hearth.

Sara was engrossed in a book, her head bent low above its pages,
unconscious of the keen blue eyes that had been regarding her
reflectively for some minutes.

With the passage of the last two months, Patrick's face seemed to
have grown more waxen, worn a little finer, and now, as he sat quietly
watching the slender figure on the opposite side of the hearth, it wore
a curious, inscrutable expression, as though he were mentally balancing
the pros and cons of some knotty point.

At last he apparently came to a decision, for he laid aside the
newspaper he had been reading a few moments before, muttering half
audibly:

"Must take your fences as you come to 'em."

Sara looked up abstractedly.

"Did you say anything?" she asked doubtfully.

Patrick gave his shoulders a grim shake.