Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. Her cheeks were aflame. There it is. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued.
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