” He said bravely. He’s nice. Sheppard, meekly. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. "By Heaven!" cried he in a tone of surprise, "you have an infant there?" "To be sure I have," replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. Supper was over. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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