The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Which, if we are not all of us very careful indeed, will be stolen from Miss Charvill. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours. ” There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. Get a license—just an idea of mine. Why should God give particular attention to such a prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap somewhere.
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