" "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The will to live had returned. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. “She is living there now,” she remarked. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. “No, no, no. ‘But a spy I am not.
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