Their conversation hung. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “It is against my husband’s orders, and I am not sure that my sister will be particularly glad to see me. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. Smith obeyed. Oh God! pardon me. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. He was accompanied by Ireton and Austin. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her.
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