He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle. And the woollen-draper departed. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend.
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