Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. Which is also puzzling. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. .
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