They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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