"I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. The former was shot by Blueskin through the head, and his body fell over the bannisters. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be.
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