The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. This, then, was the woman from whom Hoddy would not have accepted a cup of water. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He could not tell whether she was English or American. I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
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