"Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all this time. Only au revoir. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it.
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