Late in July he finished the fourth story. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Wood trembled. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He, who had faced the gale, would have been instantly stifled. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour.
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