"News for you, Rose," exclaimed the old maid, tripping into the great
parlor where the young heiress sat alone reading.
Rose looked up with a tired expression of countenance. She was pale and
sad, evidently having suffered not a little from the change in her
affairs since she visited the grounds of the Bordine cottage.
"Never mind, Janet, I do not care to read it."
"Shall I read it to you?"
"Yes, if you are determined."
Seating herself near Miss Williams, read in slow, even tones, the
announcement of he arrest of Mrs. Bordine and the flight of her son.
Miss Williams regarded her fair cousin furtively the moment she finished
reading. Rose's face was deadly pale, and her white hands became clinched
until the blood seemed ready to burst through the pink nails.
"August was no better than the rest of the men, Rose. You can't trust one
of them out of your sight."
A sigh alone answered her.
"I never thought much of that man, Rose. You remembered, I told you once
that there was a look about his eyes that reminded me of the criminal who
murdered his wife down in New Hampshire.
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