‘Possibly,’ he said. “What can I do?” “Go and see her. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination. Naturally it all came out then. They were only passers-by. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. ’ ‘What?’ uttered Gerald, startled. .
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