She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. “I was born there. ‘I do not wish to hear any more reasons so foolish, so do not trouble to think of them. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection.
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