" "What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed.
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