Without her, it was lonely. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. "It is useless," replied Mrs.
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