Her husband was prouder of her every day. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. While this was effected, intelligence was brought that a formidable mob was pouring down Field Lane, the end of which was barricaded. They give themselves airs, but so it is. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Mr.
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