" "I will carry you to the house, or fetch Mr. gutenberg. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. Darell's peculiar bent of mind was exemplified in a rusty broadsword, a tall grenadier's cap, a musket without lock or ramrod, a belt and cartouch-box, with other matters evincing a decided military taste. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. There's not his peer among the peerage.
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