" "No," cried the lady, "this room—I recollect—it has a back window. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He had done it. Spurlock mused over the previous night. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now. It added to the picturesqueness of the Sha-mien night to observe these gaily coloured lanterns dancing hither and yon like June fireflies in a meadow. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase.
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