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. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. I have never wept since that day. I would like to talk to you about this—soon. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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