‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters.
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