" "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. " "You'd better hold your peace, my lad," observed Jonathan, in a menacing tone. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. But, it can't be helped. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. “To think that you were going to do it—and never said a word! You are a little thin, but except for that you look—you look better than ever. "Enough!" exclaimed Wild, triumphantly.
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