"You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it.
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