"How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. She has been a dear. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. "I am going to give you a try. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees.
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