Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. ‘That way.
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