" "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. Woof! What a dog. He would know the truth then once and for all. She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. Folks don’t like ’em. I never could. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. Wood.
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