"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day.
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