S. . Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. “I have my methods. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then.
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