She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. “We shall try again later. You'll find me at supper. Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives. .
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