F. Brendon went for the doctor,” Anna answered. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. Were Captain Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?" "Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir," said Winifred; "but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you—I would not.
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