“Come,” she said. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. "I've not quite done yet," said Jonathan, as he joined the turnkeys. Spurling, "I hope he may never see Tyburn. You want me to be clean. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do. “Perhaps you will not object to answering one for me. Do not remain with me. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death.
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