" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. "'Faith, an' you may say that," returned a watchman, who was wiping a ruddy stream from his brow; "they've broken the paice, and our pates into the bargain. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. Go to it; and the best of luck!" He went out. We dine at seven-thirty.
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