"What have you seen?" inquired Lady Trafford. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. You wouldn't rob Mr. Sheppard. She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends.
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