Old Bedlam. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. " "Never," replied Winifred. " "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. "Bless your soul! d'ye think I'm to be gammoned by such nonsense. " And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it. “Hola Marteen!” She exclaimed cheerfully. “I really owe him something of an apology. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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