The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside. Sheppard, bitterly. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. CHAPTER III. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble.
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