"Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. Well, I was all for dragging in Bow Street there and then, and getting the pair of those fraudsters thrown in gaol. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. “It is nothing of any importance. "What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement. ” “I thought every one knew. I don’t classify. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. .
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