Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. “So very clear and cold,” she said. She comprehends what we're about.
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