" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. ‘I find you excessively rude, both of you,’ said the lady crossly. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. It hit her just above the knee.
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