Her anger died and she eyed him. " "Then you are hurt," cried the carpenter in alarm. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. " "I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room.
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