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" "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. "I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot. The expression pervading the countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely found, except in persons of high birth. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. The theme was a masquerade. When I think of it—” “But these are things I want to tell you now!” “I made a little song of it. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. ‘Bon. "What weight are these irons?" asked Jonathan, coolly addressing one of the partners. CHAPTER XV.
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