" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. I'll leave these out, and to-morrow you can read them through. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. They have rescued the child. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. For I still love her mother. . ’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Now, it won't do a bit of good to warn Spurlock. I couldn’t help the thought. "Mine died while I was over here. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope.
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