"To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. I meant mischief. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. He stood back and held her shoulders. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that.
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