An immediate halt took place. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. But I can give it its name now. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. .
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