It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. " "Come, jump up," cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, "and I'll soon wisk you to town.
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