"So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. " So saying, he closed the door. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. It’s an emerald. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. —'They have,' says he. So far the boy's mind was clear.
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