CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. " 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. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. Jackson and Mr. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?” “For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared. "Where is she?" thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs. ‘I am fascinated. "Are you answered?" said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon.
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