Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. " "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. Perhaps in two or three weeks. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. We already had a place to mislay blame.
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