Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. She had lost it. The loud noise proceeding from the couch proved that their slumbers were deep and real; and unconscious of the danger in which she stood, Mrs. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting.
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