Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. "Here's a door," remarked Ireton, when he got to that nearest the leads, "which I could have sworn would have resisted anything. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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