The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. Very glad. Wood brought up. He did not speak for a moment. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. .
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