E. Faugh!” She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. It cost her seventy-seven dollars. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream.
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