What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. It was locked. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. . John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. Not conceiving that his sister—feeble as she was, and yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether expressed or implied—would depart without consulting him, he was equally surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting her to the carriage. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world.
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