"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. As if we didn’t know! The practical trouble is our ages. It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. ” She said, studying his face, which seemed to lose its childishness a little more with each day.
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