" "Poh! poh!" rejoined Ireton; "it was mere idle boasting. " As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. The man pulled up. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order.
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