Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But there was no sign from her. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. “You are talking like a boy. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. Kneebone is coming, my dear," ventured Mr.
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