"For me—his master, Mr. ’ Gerald laughed. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. "And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. " "Perhaps not," replied Jack, to whom an idea had suddenly occurred. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged.
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