A town called Foster. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. Covering his face with a crape mask, and taking the candle from his associate, Jack entered the room; and, pistol in hand, stepped up to the bed, and approached the light to the eyes of the sleepers. Mr. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites.
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