“How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. But before the child could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. Don’t be frightened, dear.
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