She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. You can test it out on us this Thanksgiving Sunday. There is no other way. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire. She turned off the light and approached the window. He had been quite right to sit down. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-EN—Trencher that's it. His expression became pained.
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