“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ’ Looking round, she found the little coterie of soldiers crowded into the passage behind them. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. She cried out his name in ecstasy. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. Something seemed awry. "I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense.
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