The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. " "I tell 'ee what, landlord," observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quitted the house, "you've said good-b'ye to your friend. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. She chuckled. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. Horrible doubts assailed her.
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