. . Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Not at all. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. This, then, must be the person whom he had seen spring upon the western platform at the time of the collision between the boats. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments.
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