" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. Ah! she looks this way, and puts her finger to her lips. Then he threw the letter at me. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes stavin' above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. “She can’t go now.
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