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Through the curtained s of the furnished apartnett had rented for her stay in New York rays of golden sunlight peeped in like the fore ar The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to thirteen -rooe clock on the bookshelf to fourteen ht; and Mrs Hignett acknowledged the fact byup in bed She aloke at eight precisely

Was this Mrs Hignett the Mrs Hignett, the world-faht," "What of the Morrow," and all the rest of that well-known series? I'lad you askedtour

The year 1921, it will be re one for the inhabitants of the United States Every boat that arrived froht a fresh swarm of British lecturers to the country Novelists, poets, scientists, philosophers, and plain, ordinary bores; some herd instinct seemed to affect thereat race es Men and woion, art, politics, and almost every other subject; on this one point the intellectuals of Great Britain were single-minded, that there was easy money to be picked up on the lecture platforrab it as the next person

Mrs Hignett had corants; for, spiritual as her writings were, there was a solid streak of business sense in this woood She was half way across the Atlantic with a complete itinerary booked before 90 per cent of the poets and philosophers had finished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographs taken for the passport

She had not left England without a pang, for departure had involved sacrifices More than anything else in the world she loved her char home, Windles, in the county of Hanett family Windles was as the breath of life to her Its shady walks, its silver lake, its noble elrey stone of its walls--these were bound up with her very being She felt that she belonged to Windles, and Windles to her Unfortunately, as a al accuracy, it did not She did but hold it in trust for her son, Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession of it hi and bringing a strange wonett to her veryher son per hie of fifty had averted the peril up till now