"So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. "Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently. Mrs. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught,—that worst "medicine of a mind diseased,"—and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. .
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