She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. " "Go, Mr.
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