" "Pity!" shrieked the widow. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. But oh, how weary I am! I know. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. People always rejoice at the misfortunes of others—never at their own! The droll dogs! how they must have enjoyed it!—ha! ha!" "I dare say they did. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. ‘Exactly like my father. "Ha!" he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession, boy?" "Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and striking him with the silver staff. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. .
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