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. CHAPTER X. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. . We LIKED each other well enough. F. Sheppard's dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her.

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