Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. “I have not left this apartment myself. He was bewildered. Wood obeyed. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. “I rue the day I ever met you, Sebastianus.
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