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"Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. Ants. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. “He wants to settle something on you, I believe. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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