ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. "Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand.
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