" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. He handed Ruth a letter. Fifty pupils. Gave me a purse, and told me to take both of ’em up to Harwich and put them on a packet for Holland. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Neither their mother nor Sebastian noticed, as certain members of the house had taken to avoiding each other.
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