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Across the lawn there crept a wizen, gray-haired little man, with a cringing manner. He was white, but darkish in the skin, and there was something negroid about his face. This dwarfish little creature was a tramp, who had become a pensioner of Isabella's. He had attached himself to her like some faithful dog, and rarely failed to present himself at least once a day. Diving under her stand, she fished out the bundle and opened it with trembling fingers. "Judy likes to see herself go by in the mirror," smiled Elinor leniently. "I suppose that's the literary mind.".

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"Yes, but on the charge of stealing the body only. I took it out after hearing the evidence of the tramp, Battersea." "Dead!" wailed Isabella, catching at the word, "Maurice dead!" "No, dat only drib away bad debbils. But you scratch de skin with one leetle bit of it, and you die, die, die!" "You shan't marry her!" cried Maurice, angrily rising..