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. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. No offence, I hope. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I am going to take a liberty. Shall I bring off anything?" he added, looking eagerly round.
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