“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. "I advise you against this trip, Mr.
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