And in its way it was very well. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. That really settles about that. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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