"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "But I like Bobby Burns best. Just beyond there would be her heart's desire. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. " "Constance alive? Impossible!" ejaculated Trenchard. It was no marriage at all. Bitte!. " The little girl's countenance fell. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. “Are you serious?” “You know very well that I should never joke on such a subject.
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