"Now; Mike," to the little dachshund, "let us make tracks for the upper regions.

Good-night, Cedric." As Elizabeth paused at the foot of the staircase, Malcolm thought what a splendid subject she would make for a picture.

The soft draperies gave her a queenly, aspect, and the white scarf that she still wore over her head lent her a mystic look; in her hand she carried a curious brass lamp of some antique design, and at her bosom were fastened, negligently, a great spray of crimson roses.

"She looks like a St.
Elizabeth in this dim lamplight," he thought.

"Those red roses look like a dark stain on her breast.