As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. This is a noted place for highwaymen. The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished.
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