Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. " "Oh!" exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. "The poor young man!" she said. You cannot care for her. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Spurling, indignantly; "but I can tell you we have. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. " And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips.
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