"It did look like rain at one time," Edward admitted; "but it's passed off now. Very queer weather we're having. I suppose that's why I've felt so funny all day."
"Yes, I suppose it's the weather," I replied. "_I've_ been feeling funny too."
The weather had nothing to do with it, as we well knew. But we would both have died rather than have admitted the real reason.
THE BLUE ROOM
That nature has her moments of sympathy with man has been noted often enough,--and generally as a new discovery; to us, who had never known any other condition of things, it seemed entirely right and fitting that the wind sang and sobbed in the poplar tops, and in the lulls of it, sudden spirts of rain spattered the already dusty roads, on that blusterous March day when Edward and I awaited, on the station pla
