For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart.
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