It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. "Confusion!" ejaculated Jonathan: "can he have escaped? No. For an instant, Melusine watched him go. ” “I was turned shortly after the Pestilence, the plague that they call the Black Death.
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