CHAPTER VIII. Let him be sure. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. They all left the room. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. “For better or worse. Ain't you, Jacky darling?" "Not quite, Poll," returned Mr. F. "I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose. "Sir Cecil is no more. That would be him. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full.
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