Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. " "You cannot prevent my departure," replied Jack, dauntlessly, "and therefore your offer is no favour. " This business over, she returned to the bedside with the key. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. "Oh, I've read that!" Spurlock had heard distinctly enough all of this odd conversation; but until the spinster's reference to the family album, no phrase had been sufficient in strength of attraction to break the trend of his own unhappy thoughts. Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles— those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money," A less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the "Delectable History of Whittington's College," that "When the prisoners are disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room, called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare. But one of these days everything will click back into place.
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