this parish for generations. I believe July is the last of them."
He faced round upon her again. "Sand, did you say? That's a strange thing to remember. How does sand come into your mind? Think, now."
She cast down her eyes; her fingers plucked at the daisy-chain. After a while she shook her head. "I can't think," she answered, glancing up timidly and pitifully.
"Surely we are wasting time," I suggested. To tell the truth I disapproved of his worrying the poor girl.
He took the daisy-chain from her, looking at me the while with something between a "by-your-leave" and a challenge. A smile played about the corners of his mouth.
"Let us waste a little more." He held up the chain before her and began to sway it gently to and fro. "Look at it, please, and stretch out your arm; look steadily. Now your name is Julia Constantine, and you say that the arm on the wall belongs to you. Why?"
"Because … if you please, sir, because of the mark."
"What mark?"
"The mark on my arm."
This answer seemed to discompose as well as to surprise him. He snatched at her wrist and rolled back her sleeve, somewhat roughly, as I thought. "Look here, sir!" he exclaimed, pointing to a thin
