Hang me if it ain’t almost a pity to mark
’em! Not but what high-classed tattooing
is an ornament to anybody, from a Prin
cess down; and in that you are fortunit,
Miss, for I larnt tattooing from them as
can tattoo, 1 did.”
Augusta bit her lip ami the tears came
into her gray eyes. .She was only a wo
man, and had n woman’s little weakness,
and, though she had never appeared in a
low dress in her life, she knew that her
bust was one of her greatest beauties and
was proud of it. It was hard to think that
she would be marked ail her life with
this ridiculous will—that is, if she escaped
—and, what was more, for the benefit of a
young man who had no claim upon her at
ail.
That was what she said to herself, but
as she said it something in her told her
that it was not true. Something told her
that this young Mr. Eustace Mecson had
a claim upon her—the highest claim that
a man can have upon a woman, for the
truth must out—she loved him. it seemed
to liars come homo to her quite clearly
here in this dreadful, desolate place, here
la the very shadow of an awful death, that
she did love him, truly and deeply. And
that being so, she would not have been
what she was—a gentle-natured, devoted
woman-had she not at her heart rejoiced
at this opportunity of sell-sacriflco, even
though that self-sacrifice was of the hard
est sort, seeing that it involved what all
women hate—the endurance of a ridicu
lous position. For love can do all things,
it can even make its rotaries brave ridi
cule.
