"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. He drifted in and out of consciousness. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Though," said the thieftaker, with a complacent smile, "all the world seems to tremble at it.
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