" "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. In one grave, mind. “It is a hateful story. "Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. " "Oh, yes I will. ” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. They will claim particular attention hereafter. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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