" "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. “I couldn’t help it. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency.
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