"Dying, Sir Rowland. " "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. Some foul murder has been committed. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. I can't keep a good man beyond three pay-days. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him.
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