Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “But how can you?” asked Constance. "I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail.
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