Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Jack had well-nigh fallen too. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Immediately the soldiers of the major will come from the gate.
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