It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “If you attempted such a thing it would be in order that I should smack you hard with the palm of my hand upon the cheek. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back.
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