She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. Brutes! They are the brute still with us! Science some day may teach us a way to do without them. "Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard.
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