” She stopped short, full of things un-said. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go.
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