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She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. ‘Odd sort of a nun. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. "It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames Darrell!" "Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did you contrive to guess that?" "Is he well?—is he safe?—is he coming back," cried the little girl, disregarding the question.
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