She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. “The Widgetts,” she said. CHAPTER XXI.
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