His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp. Sheppard," said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; "what brings you to town, eh?— Nothing amiss, I trust?" "Nothing whatever, Sir," answered the widow. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. ' Upon which the other answered, 'that he accepted his invitation with pleasure, and would make a point of waiting upon him,' Ha! ha! ha!" "Did he say so?" cried Shotbolt. .
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