It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The next moment he was by her side. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. ’ ‘You see? Not to be trusted,’ Hilary uttered disgustedly.
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