And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. The name of this damsel was Edgeworth Bess; and, as her fascinations will not, perhaps, be found to be without some influence upon the future fortunes of her boyish admirer, we have thought it worth while to be thus particular in describing them. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Either Sydney or Mr. “There is my aunt,” she said. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. It melted her heart.
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