"For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. Will you not, brother?" "Promise," said a deep voice in Trenchard's ear. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. “I was lonely. “No!” she exclaimed. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir.
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