fastened her hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty, over her back and shoulders, and dropped round her, far below her waist. She separated one long, thin lock from the rest, cut it off, and pinned it carefully, in the form of a circle, on the first blank page of the album. The moment it was fastened she closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my hands.
“You write to him and he writes to you,” she said. “While I am alive, if he asks after me always tell him I am well, and never say I am
any intention to terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale, frightened face.
“I will try,” she answered. “But you know too much—I’m afraid you’ll always frighten me now.”
Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head pityingly.
“Good-night, sir,” she said. “You