But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. " "I'm no reader of riddles," said Jonathan. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. 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. "How?" cried her brother, starting. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. "That depends upon what you call educated. .
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