"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. ’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. ” “Is my sister’s Christian name, then, of so much importance to you?” she asked with a faint smile. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. But this was a vicomte’s sister. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well.
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