In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. "O, lud!" she cried; "French noblemen in disguise! and so rude as I was! I shall never recover it!" "A good supper will set all to rights," insinuated Kneebone. Thank him, not me, man. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught,—that worst "medicine of a mind diseased,"—and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth.
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