Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. You must tell me what it all means. The Wastrel did not relish this. He still watched her and questioned her. So it would always be between herself and Manning. And, yet, I don't know. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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