A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. " "Then, I'm quite easy," cried Winifred, joyfully. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. " "No fear of that," rejoined Rowland: "such vermin never dare to show themselves in this privileged district. He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot.
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