A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. Because of the Dance. “DEAR MR. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought.
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