It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. \"Did you girls finish your homework?\" Cathy's head appeared in the open door. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. " "Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!" cried Jack, impatiently. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Dinner was quite uneventful.
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