” “They were my posters,” Annabel said. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. “You!” she exclaimed. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. "Will he live?" asked Ruth. ” “I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically.
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