Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. Do you know anything of his friends? Is there any one for whom we ought to send?” “I know very little of him beyond his name,” Anna answered. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. He rather liked the "sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit.
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