"Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t.
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