Scawthorne
read as he waited for his breakfast. It was the end of October, and
cool enough to make the crackling fire grateful. Having mused over
the epistle, our friend took up his morning paper and glanced at the
report of criminal trials. Whilst he was so engaged his landlady
entered, carrying a tray of appetising appearance.
'Good-morning, Mrs. Byass,' he said, with much friendliness. Then,
in a lower voice, 'There's a fuller report here than there was in
the evening paper. Perhaps you looked at it?'
'Well, yes, sir; I thought you wouldn't mind,' replied Bessie,
arranging the table.
'She'll be taken care of or three years, at all events.'
'If you'd seen her that day she came here after Miss Snowdon, you'd
understand how glad I feel that she's out of the way. I'm sure I've
been uneasy ever since. If ever there comes a rather loud knock
at--there I begin to tremble; I do indeed. I don't think I shall ever
get over it.'
'I dare say Miss Snowdon will be easier in mind?'
'I shouldn't wonder. But she won't say anything about it. She feels
the disgrace so much, and I know it's almost more than she can do to
go to work, just because she thinks they talk about her.
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