"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. I would like to talk to you about this—soon. You can do it, if you will. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. But the cases were not identical. CHAPTER XII.
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