In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. And we won’t make it so. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. “Do come and cheer me up. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. She had killed him. I'm burning to get to work. She's my mealticket. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well.
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