"Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed Jonathan, sarcastically. It is the only way. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling.
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