I went out into the garden, but it looked dreary; the autumn flowers were few and far between--the lawn was soaked and sodden with yesterday's rain.

I wandered into Owen's room.

He had returned to his painting, but was not working, as it struck me, with his customary assiduity and his customary sense of enjoyment.
We had a long talk together about George and Jessie and the future.

Owen urged me to risk speaking of my son in her presence once more, on the chance of making her betray herself on a second occasion, and I determined to take his advice.

But she was in such high spirits when she came home to dinner on this Seventh Day, and seemed so incapable, for the time being, of either feeling or speaking seriously, that I thought it wiser to wait till her variable mood altered again with the next wet day.
The number drawn this evening was Eight, being the number of the story which it had cost Owen so much labor to write.