Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. There is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. David Courtlaw. CHAPTER VIII.
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