He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. And of course! She had a brilliant idea. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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