The Tamworth Examiner and Working Men's Journal. — 1874-04-18 (Tamworth, Staffordshire, England)

SKEW:V.O.OK. aeep tiara snaaows had began to hang in murky folds over the distant upland, and were dispersing again before the rising moon. The air was chilly and cold and frosty. In the summer time The Cedars was an umbra geoue paradise. In the winter its tall, gaunt poplar trees and its weird limes and its haggard elms made ei It an odd admixture of the picturesque and the gloomy. Altogether, however, it was a tolerabi'v stately old mansion, though now fast falling into away througi years of systematic neglect. The Cedars was soon a blazing neves of light Lt. Holt never dared to roam over the place an every cranny and every doghole was fiercely light When at home, the first falling shadows war 'ways a signal to the servants for a general ills mination of The Cedars. In her bedroom at night tapers wero kept constantly burning, for the beautiful widow had an instinctive horror of the darkness, and neverventured out into the night without a companion. Mrs. Holt threw herself into the chair oefore the fire, to dream awhile of the golden days that ambitionm fancy mirrored as her probable future lot. During the fortnight past she had done little beyond muse on the delights and lionottrs and the power which she believed her union with Sir Marmaduke necessarily in. volved. Presently she started from her reverie of bright antiei. pations, and drew from her dress the precious scrap-book which Mr. Armitage, either accidentally or by design, had dropped in the glade. They were awfully rude drawings. The very beet or All would have been more than amply sufficient to Insure the artist a very sound whipping at a third rate academy. For an hour or more Mrs. Holt continued there before the fire, languidly and dreamily tuning over the pages of this artistic treasure. As she paused over its last leaf there dropped upon her lap a gentleman's card, and the words upon it were—not as you might have supposed —" Mr. Alfred Armitage," but "M. Ernest there were- written in three places on the back the same address and name. It was clear, therefore, that the gentleman at The Parsonage was not what he es,,, himself out to be—an artist. It was evident also that his mission was other than what he represented. Mrs. Holt was speculating with some anxiety, on the possibilities of tie ruiseien to Lockeley of the murderer of George d'Alcazoy, when the servant announced the gentleman in queetion—Mr. Armitage. Mrs. Holt was very much perplexed. She doubted whether she ought, after the discovery in the sketchbook, to see Mr. Armitage or not. But counsels if canning prevailed, and she decided to run all risks. She received Mr., Armitage as she received all her visitors, in a bright frivolous way. You saw at once, by the familiar behaviour of the soi-ditane artist, that this was by no meete the first time he had been to The Cedars. When they Were nicelv seated, and a host of pretty inquiries had been made on both sides anent the coining party it the Hall on the morrow, Mrs. Holt venktred to approach the subject of the sketch-book. "What have you lost, Mr.Cantasfl Armitage?" catet.'its.ll.v. .faitre it um'