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A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs. 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. “I saw his face in a mirror. “He seems like such a nice boy. I could not become an Oracle. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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