He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. The water was cold but she waded deeper. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. " "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. No offence, I hope. What was to hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your retreat?" "Enough," replied Darrell. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. .
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