" "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. . . She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. 276 He opened the box. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. 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. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand.
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