" "You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir," urged the widow. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. And this is not France, you understand. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. ” She was altogether hysterical now. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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