"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. It was. He suspected a trap. . There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. You are my slave—and such you shall continue. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. As he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. It has been proved.
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