out over the sweet English landscape in the warm twilight—the breeze stirring the white curtains—her little son in her lap gurgling and smiling up at her—and her heart with David, wherever he might be.
Slowly the dusk veiled all, and one star glimmered above the slender church spire. A pretty maid brought candles and a book in which she was asked to write her name. She was the landlady's daughter and looked wholesome and bright. Cassandra glanced in her face as she set the candles down, and took up the pen mechanically.
"Mother says will you sign here, please?"
"Yes." Cassandra turned the leaves slowly and read other names and addresses—many of them. She wrote "Cassandra Merlin—" and paused; then, making a long dash, added simply, "America," and, handing back the book and pen, turned again to the window.
"Thank you. Is that all?" said the maid, lingering.
"Yes," said Cassandra again; then she laid her baby on the bed and began taking his night clothing from her bag.
"How pretty he is! Shan't I help you unpack, ma'm?"
Cassandra paused, looking dreamily before her as if scarcely comprehending, then she said: "Not to-night, thank you. Perhaps to-morrow." The maid deftly piled the supper dishes and, taking them and the book with her, departed with a