All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. Tears started to the young man's eyes on beholding the change, and it was with difficulty he could command himself sufficiently to make the inquiries he desired to do respecting the former owner of the house. Kneebone said, just now. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.
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