"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you —when we first met. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. “Buon Primomaggio. " "Ah. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy.
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