It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. " "We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel. \" Lucy winced. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Who invented them? Nobody knows. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. This was rather too much to expect; for we all know, if Mr.
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