"Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. You called yourself a murderess. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things.
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