It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. " She rose. Hang the wench! Roding was right. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. Listen. pgdp. "Noblemen. “Have you heard things?” The tears stood in her eyes.
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