Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. CHAPTER XXIX. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. “Hola Marteen!” She exclaimed cheerfully.
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