276 He opened the box. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. But she must not laugh. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Here it is. His first date, he was a late bloomer for a Popular. Softly she rose to her feet. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. . . She wanted to think. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel.
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