Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. You can do it, if you will. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. She looked around her. " "Ah, Jack," said Wood, shaking his head, "where there's a will there's a way. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar.
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