” “Why not?” She turned on him. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips.
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