And now that Albert's scratched face was out of sight, and there was no visible object to keep alive her indignation, she felt her heart full of ruth for poor, dear Mr.Westcott.

How lonesome he must be without her! She could only measure his lonesomeness by her own.

Her heart, ever eager to love, could not let go when once it had attached itself, and she longed for other evenings in which she could hear Smith's rattling talk, and in which he would tell her how happy she had made him.

How lonesome he must be! What if he should drown himself in the lake?
Mr.Plausaby, at tea, would tell in the most incidental way of something that had happened during the day, and then, in his sliding, slipping, repetitious, back-stitching fashion, would move round from one indifferent topic to another until he managed at last to stumble over Smith Westcott's name.
"By the way," he would say, "poor Smith looks heartbroken.

Absolutely heart-broken.