able desire to hear her speak once more, if it were only to taunt me.
We made the passage stealthily; all the world seemed drowsing on that hazy Sunday afternoon. The blinds in the Bishop's study were drawn. Little did he guess the life his great-niece led!
The grass was like moist velvet beneath our feet. A pair of sparrows were quarrelling over their bath at the fountain rim. We heard a low murmur of voices. A glint of Jane's white frock could be seen behind a guelder rose near the fountain. We crept up behind and peered through the foliage.
There on a garden bench sat Jane, and there, clasped in her slim white arms was—The Seraph! The wretched Dorothea lay, face downward, on the grass at their feet.
We strained our ears to hear what was being said. Jane spoke in that silvery voice of hers:
"Say some more drefful things, Seraph. I jus' love to hear you."
There was a moment's silence; then, The Seraph said in his blandest tone, the one word—
"Blood!"
Jane gave a tiny, ecstatic shriek.
"Oh, go on!" she begged, "say more."
"Blood," repeated The Seraph, firmly, "Hot blood—told blood—wed blood—thick blood—thin blood—bad blood."
[73]
