Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. " "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen.
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