Presently there was a sound of wheels jogging down the road, and a voice singing snatches of some song, one of those cheery street-songs that the boys whistle.

It was a low, weak voice, but very pleasant.

Margret heard it through the dark: she kissed the dog with a strange paleness on her face, and stood up, quiet, attentive as before.

Tiger still kept licking her hand, as it hung by her side: it was cold, and trembled as he touched it.

She waited a moment, then pushed him from her, as if his touch, even, caused her to break some vow.