She opened and read it at once. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. . When she saw however that this man was a stranger, and obviously harmless, her expression changed as though by magic. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. .
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