"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. Nothing, in short, was too extravagant to be related of it; and Jonathan, who delighted in investing himself and his residence with mystery, encouraged, and perhaps originated, these marvellous tales. He could quite understand the daughter of Mr. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. It began as a joke.
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