There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. I have given up painting. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me.
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