"Not my king's," returned Wood. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. ’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat.
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