” The conversation hung. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. She and I were very close.
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