" "Ah!" shrieked Lady Trafford. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. ” “It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?” “I felt impudent. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. “Oh, please. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. .
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