His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. He was an officer, and a person of very great sense, and altogether a desirable parti. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. It will be hot work, but it must be done at once. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. ‘It is imbecile that you are. What! mum still. C. .
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