It was better even than the hymn-singing. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Sheppard staggered forward. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. It was from Brendon. He remembered that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between these two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, whilst the other had attached herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterie of pleasure-seekers. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.
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