now even the color of her complexion?"

"When I saw her, she was as white as a sheet. Even her lips were
bloodless. You see, she was frightened out of her wits."

"Well, then, her hair--her hair, man! Was that dark or light?"

"I didn't see it."

"Didn't see it?"

"No. You see it was covered by her hood. Think of that driving sleet.
She had to cover herself up as much as she could from the terrible
pelting of the storm."

"Well, then, I'll ask only one question more," said Jack, dryly. "I
hope you'll be able to answer it. A great deal depends upon it. In
fact, upon a true answer to this question the whole thing rests. Gather
up all your faculties now, old chap, and try to answer me correctly. No
shirking now--no humbug, for I won't stand it. On your life, Macrorie,
and, by all your future hopes, answer me this--was your friend--a woman
or a man?"

At the beginning of this solemn question, I had roused myself and sat
upright, but at its close I flung myself down in disgust.

"Well," said Jack, "why don't you answer?"

"Jack," said I, severely, "I'm not in the humor for chaff."

"Chaff! my dear fellow, I only want to get a basis of action--a base of
operations. Are you sure your friend was a woman? I'm in
earnest--really."

"That's all rubbish--of course she was a woman--a lady--young--
beautiful--but the anguish which she felt made her face seem like that
of Niobe, or--or--well like some marble statue representing woe or
despair, and all that sort of thing. What's the use of humbugging a
fellow? Why not talk sense, or at least hold your tongue?"

"Don't row, old boy. You were so utterly in the dark about your friend
that I wanted to see how far your knowledge extended. I consider now
that a great point is settled, and we have something to start from.
Very well. She was really a woman!"

"A lady," said I.

"And a lady," repeated Jack.

"Young?"

"Young."

"And beautiful as an angel," I interposed, enthusiastically.

"And beautiful as an angel," chimed in Jack. "By-the-by, Macrorie, do
you think you would know her by her voice?"

"Well, n--no, I don't think I would. You see, she didn't say much, and
what she did say was wrung out of her by terror or despair. The tones
of that voice might be very different if she were talking about--well,
the weather, for instance. The voice of a woman in a storm, and in the
face of death, is not exactly the same in tone or modulation as it is
when she is quietly s