I wonder——” He turned slowly round. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. ” “But you,” she exclaimed, “you are not coming. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. . .
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