Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. "Your son," answered the boy. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. . ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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