She had never been so happy to vomit. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. “Lucy. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune surely? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. But she was not sure just how to reach it. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Wood," said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of consumption; "and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your kindness! You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and now you've proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy. He lowered himself on to her.
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