"I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. " "And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. " "Ay, ay," observed Jonathan, "you'll give the keepers of his Majesty's jails some trouble before you're many years older, I'll warrant you. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. ” He paused for a time. She still could not muster the strength to leave. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Sheppard. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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