The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. . When she renewed her attendance at the Imperial College the third finger of her left hand was adorned with a very fine old ring with dark blue sapphires that had once belonged to a great-aunt of Manning’s. "I love her already. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. Men have seen to that.
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