At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. "He has passed this way," cried Jonathan, exultingly; "I have him safe enough. "Oh, God! would you take him from me?— would you murder him?" "His father's name?—and he is free," rejoined Rowland, holding her arms. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature.
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