There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son.
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