“She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. " "You're a noble-hearted little fellow, Thames," rejoined Wood, casting a look of pride and affection at his adopted son, whose head he gently patted; "and give promise of a glorious manhood. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?" "I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you," rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Wood's advice and assistance, but the thought of the reception she was likely to meet with from his wife deterred her from executing this resolution. Perhaps the doctor, the manager and the girl were in collusion: perhaps they had heard indirectly of the visit paid by Mr. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption.
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