Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. They both listened intently. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home. "But she is a dear," said Angelina, timidly. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit.
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