"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. The streets were full of colour. People ran out of their shops to join the pursuit; and, by the time Wild had got into Field-lane, he had a troop of fifty persons at his heels —all eager to assist in the capture. He was mad. “Dare!” she said. . Her lips parted, but no words came. Wood was once a favourite of yours. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how.
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