Sebastian had come to visit his old friend and former wife. He was disquieted. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. Oh, it was very bad. Another instance was that of Toby Tanner—" "No more of this," interrupted Trenchard; "where is the boy?" "Not far hence," replied Wild. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. " "Do not speak of it," rejoined Thames, with a look of horror.
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