Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Again having recourse to the centre-bit,—for Winifred's door was locked,—Jack had nearly cut out a panel, when a sudden outcry was raised in the carpenter's chamber. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. He's now engaged on the hall at Greenwich Hospital. So dreadful were these shouts as to produce an effect upon the hardened feelings of Jonathan, who shrank out of sight. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. F.
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