It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. I am grateful, indeed I am.
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