Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. " The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had previously been with Mrs. Saviours's stairs," answered Jonathan. A silence ensued. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized —he lives!" "As yet," returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis. Mr.
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