CHAPTER XXXVI.
RETRIBUTION.
"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may,
And when the mockery of fate
Hath left revenge her chosen way."
Whittier.
t was the afternoon of the following day. The squire sat alone, muttering to himself: "Singular! most singular! most ex-cess-ively singular! wants a private interview, eh! What the dickens can be in old Wiseman's noddle now? Maybe he wants to divorce Gipsy, and marry Lizzie. Ha! ha! ha! that would be a joke. Wonder what old Mother Oranmore wanted? that's another secret. I suppose she told Gipsy and—ha! here's Gipsy herself. 'Speak of Old Nick, and he'll appear,' as Solomon says. Well, what's the news?"
"Where's Dr. Wiseman?" inquired Gipsy, abruptly.
"Up stairs. He sent down word some time ago, that he had something important to tell me, and wanted a private interview. Think of that! But what is the matter with you? You look as if you'd been riding on a broomstick all night—as if you were the Witch of Endor, who told King Saul's fortune long ago."
As he spoke, a slow, heavy footstep was heard descending the stairs.
"There's old Wiseman now, pegging along," said the squire. "I never see him walking, since he broke his shin-bone, that he doesn't remind me of Old Nick himself. Now for this wonderful secret of his."