Something seemed awry. I should have known at a glance if it was. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. Three short days. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece.
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