Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. To have you is all important. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. "What does he say?" roared the long drover. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. " "I don't know. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. ” He replied lightly and stepped towards her.
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