"Hear the letter," said Ireton, breaking the seal. " "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. “I hope you are going to Carey House. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much.
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