" "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred. Sheppard, with a deep sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Then she went into the office. As they kissed goodbye, she hoped that he felt the same reluctance to part. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Ireton and his friends to taste it.
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