" "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. \" She whispered back. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. .
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