A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. By-the-bye,” he added, in a suddenly altered tone, “I hope, I trust—that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?” “I—oh no!” Anna said, a little faintly. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. The crash was tremendous. .
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