Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most fa-miliar with him

rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers sup-porting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners

We marry in April, on an unseasonably cold afternoon.

(If you read this story out loud, please use the following voices: Me: as a child, high-pitched, forgettable; as a woman, the same. The boy who will grow into a man, and be my spouse: robust with his own good fortune. My father: Like your father, or the man you wish was your father. My son: as a small child, gentle, rounded with the faintest of lisps; as a man, like my husband. All other women: interchangeable with my own.)

He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.

A colonial man­sion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity-but that would be asking too much of fate! Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.