"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. You’re dogmatic. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. I consented. She wanted to live. Before it is too late. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. Let us search it. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. He hesitated. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. .
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