"And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Our ideal had fallen. Wild here presently. "Has he escaped?" asked the thief-taker, faintly. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner. ” He said nothing for a space. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. She cocked her head. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. 277 “I was beginning to think that I would never see you again, Lucy. ” He relapsed into a stony silence. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites.
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