Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. I may as well think. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. McClintock would be on hand to tell her how and where to obtain this freedom. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced.
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