Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. dear. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. ” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. “We don’t want things to happen!” Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances.
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