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Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. ’ ‘That was not what I had in mind. " "On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily. " "I don't require it," returned Sheppard. ” “It’s gone. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. Too late.
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