Then, presto! What a dreary lot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley! Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ” “I thought every one knew. ‘You have no idea how dull the militia is compared to the Army. " And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding.
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