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. . CHAPTER XXI. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. " "How so?" inquired Winifred. In a fit of despondency, superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the impression produced by the spectacle —such the alarm occasioned by the crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely abandoned. . I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She pulled him towards the bed. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. " "Have I ever broken my word in such matters, that he dares put the question?" rejoined Jonathan sternly. "You can shave him, you know. "Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. .
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