The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically.
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