” “I don’t care how we meet,” she said. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. She turned off the light and approached the window. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. I was visiting the royal family, as they sought me for a tutor for their sons over the summer. The doctor's lessons, perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyed that buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Last night there had been no time. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. It had been very peaceful in the little cave for countless years.
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