"Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. He smiled. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. The dark and desperate thoughts that were passing through his mind at this time will presently be shown.
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