She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. " "Ah, yes; that's all very well. “Women are mocked,” she said. . . The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. “Now you must go,” she said firmly. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away.
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