A neat tale, giving little away. "I must tell you," she was saying. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang. "Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke. .
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