He had often read about it, and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue controlled would have meant liberty indefinite. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. " "Pshaw! you'd do as much for me any day, and think no more about it. Don't feel fussed upon my account. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended.
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