Lord bless you marm! we sees plenty on 'em in our purfession. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. The Times slipped from his fingers. "Stop!" exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; "do you want to get me sent across the water?" "I want to save you from disgrace and ruin," returned Thames.
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