" Prudence felt the hands stiffen oddly; and again the thought came to her that perhaps this poor child's father had once been, perhaps still was, in the same category as this Taber. "The doctor said something about that. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. She saw his face change, how he regretted. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind.
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