Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. I am suspected of having shot the man. "There!" cried Mrs. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. But "fine" is the word. I don’t. She had no idea what she should do. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you.
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