“You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. . He is steeped in the conventions. But to make an arrest to be like a revenge? No, a thousand times. Much too young for you. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Certain reserves went down on both sides. " "Come, jump up," cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, "and I'll soon wisk you to town. .
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