Sheppard, eagerly. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't.
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