‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. " "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. "Good night, Master. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
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