Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. . Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge.
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