Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. " "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?" "No, Sir Rowland. A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening.
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