She confided in me yesterday. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. “Homely?” “Well, yeah, that’s what he said. “And let’s have a look at you, Vee!” said Mr.
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