"I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. I saw them both. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. The blood will rest on your head. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon.
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