"Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. “My God!” and ceased to move. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living. Then the storm broke. "My father!" she whispered. Then she reverted to the trousers.
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