The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. To his great joy he found a small garret-door in the roof of the opposite house open. As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. “Not to-night,” she said. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. .
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