He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince.
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