She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. But she was relentless. "No offence," returned Jonathan. A slow anger burned in the man. "Good-bye, Mac. From me. Your life is like a funeral March. “This place is very beautiful. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Imagine any one on this side refusing fifty bucks! Well, I'll be toddling along. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Nothing ensued.
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