You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. "It is droll," he said. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. ‘We don’t know who she is. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. She decided to go on, after a momentary halt. No— no, it must never be. “More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife.
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