While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. There is the key. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. Sheppard, in a voice of agony. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared.
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