"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. They've heard quite enough for my purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics excluded. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. She said that your mother was only fifteen when she went to live with them.
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