"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. “Hill gradually recovering consciousness. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. You do not know him. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days.
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