” “But I say, Vee,” said Constance, “if you come and you are forbidden to come there’ll be the deuce of a row. ” Lucy hesitated. ’ ‘No, no, go and fetch the men to the house. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. F. Jackson, gallantly. Too busy. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. "Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short. ’ ‘I am relieved to hear it. They were sitting alone, Lucy.
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