"And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The air was pungent and leaden. The next moment, a struggle was heard, and Blueskin appeared at the door, followed by Mrs. Man or woman. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. Come down with me to the Lodge directly. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. CHAPTER XXVII.
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