" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Tears sprang to her eyes. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. “What can you do?” she asked.
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