Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. Her head rose. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt.
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