"
Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant of mother
Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair matron must have
felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the
man, "Who shall I say is sick?"
"A friend," was the laconic reply, as he walked rapidly away,
muttering to himself, "A pretty scrape St. Claire is getting
himself into. Poor Arthur, poor Arthur."
It would seen that Edith, too, was imbued with something of the
spirit which prompted him to say, "Poor Arthur," for she
involuntarily sighed, and casting another glance at the windows of
the den, gave loose rein to Bedouin and galloped swiftly down the
road.
The next morning was clear and bright, and as Richard felt the
bracing air, he said to her, "We will visit Grassy Spring to-day.
It's time you gave it a little air."
The carriage was accordingly brought out, and in half an hour's
time Richard and Edith were treading the deserted rooms, into
which they let the warm sunlight by opening wide the windows, all
save those of one chamber.
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