The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. "It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben: "the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. It was the only way to make the monthly bills. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s.
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