Beck, it smells wonderful in here. "To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Ladders, paviour's rams, sledge-hammers, and other destructive implements were procured, and, in all probability, their purpose would have been effected, but for the opportune arrival of a detachment of the guards, who dispersed them, not without some loss of life. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat. “I have my methods.
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