He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. She ran towards the arched stone door, her mouth forming an “O” of surprise as she realized that she was in the high turret of an ocean side castle. ‘Certainly I am catholique.
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