Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. Casting a hasty glance, as he was about to turn an angle of the wall, at the great gates and upper windows of the prison, and perceiving no symptoms of pursuit, Jack proceeded towards the hovel at a very deliberate pace, carefully assisting his female companion over every obstacle in the road, and bearing her in his arms when, as was more than once the case, she sank from fright and exhaustion. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came. No one had the resources or the inclination to rebuild them. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets.
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