"Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. " "Rather behind me;" and he spoke no more that morning. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather.
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