“Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. “Steady on!” he cried. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. " "Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. "Yes," answered the girl. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ” It was a long, meandering talk, stupid, shameful, and unavoidable. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. ’ A scowl crossed the lady’s face. ’ Martha looked up, belligerence in her tone. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
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