Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. E. But did Gerald trouble himself about her? No. "Call as you please, beloved girl," he cried, "I will not stir till I am answered. The manager twisted his moustache. D'ye hear. He'd never forgive you. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. There are way-stations—even terminals.
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