Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. Down in my part of the world it's all a man has to go by. Once before—but that had been different. McClintock will have some.
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