Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. There was a hint of tears in her voice. As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. But all of that was forgotten. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. It is of no use. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door. .
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