On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. " "It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. "You mistake,—you are mine.
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