" Sir Rowland made no reply, but angrily quickened his pace. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. “But, forgive me, you are tired. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You should have gone to Charvill. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. He would require things of her, and she would be passionately concerned to meet his requirements.
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