She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. The latch came with a weak click. "Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. They’ll know. I’m damaged goods. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.
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