Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic. ” Annabel gave a little gasp.
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