A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. “You have killed me. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. Every one looked at Anna. Ennison paused by the little gate. McClintock was in a gay mood at dinner that night; but he did not see fit to give these children the true reason. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. But a biddable girl. .
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