The morning-glories about the kitchen porch had flung their rosy horns toward the east, as though to greet the sunrise.

Sarah stood under them, surveying the young man regretfully.

"Your aunts won't half like it, Mr.Gifford," she said, "that you wouldn't eat a proper breakfast." But he put his foot in the stirrup, and flung himself into his saddle.

He was too much absorbed in his own concerns to reflect that Miss Deborah would be distressed if her Scotch collops were slighted, and that was not like Gifford.

However, he was young and a man, so his grief did not prevent him from lighting a cigarette.