It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Decidedly this was imbecile. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. “This is not every day. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. We’ll make short work of them.
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