MAUD BINGLEY. CHAPTER I. "I saw the drooping pall and plumes, EMMELINE HINXMAN. HE sighing wind sang a mournful requiem enough, as it slowly and sadly swayed the boughs of the tall fir-trees to and fro, which overshadow the road skirting Tor churchyard. It was a bleak, keen, garish day, towards the end of February, and though the morning sun shone down with a force that told of winter's soon giving way to spring, as yet no green leaves or budding grass gave softness to the rays, which played as pitilessly on the black draperies of a group yet gathered round an open grave, as did the rough, northern blast which mocked its fictitious warmth. |