"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. “I see the difficulty. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. He hung round those broad waters from noon until three and realized that he had embarked upon a wild-goose chase. I did not reckon upon—him. ’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. ’ A scowl crossed the lady’s face. "But, however, it may turn out, I disown you.
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