One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Your aunt and I have discussed all this matter. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. " "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. Well, come back in half an hour.
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