Mr. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “Now replace the stone, my child. ” She stopped. He impetuously grasped a hold of her hand, looking for a callous. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour.
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