Detached, it was not impossible that she would be forced to leave the dining room because of invading tears. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. And now her father said she must not go. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. Sheppard.
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