How dreary it all looks. ” 174 < 21 > THANKSGIVING She padded softly up the old stairs, exhausted and elated. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. . Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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