Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. Yield, villain!" "Never!" replied Jonathan. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. Why should he stare at her in this fashion?—for all the world as if she had pointed a pistol at his head? CHAPTER III He had said it, spoken it like that … his own name! After all these weeks of trying to obliterate even the memory of it!… to have given it to this girl without her asking! The thought of peril cleared a space in the alcoholic fog.
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