" "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?" "No, Sir Rowland. He dropped the key on the counterpane. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered.
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