She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. “Miss Pellissier is nothing to me except a young lady for whom I have the most profound and respectful admiration. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. There was another little thing he had to say. No more scuffling. The name of this damsel was Edgeworth Bess; and, as her fascinations will not, perhaps, be found to be without some influence upon the future fortunes of her boyish admirer, we have thought it worth while to be thus particular in describing them.
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