“Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. "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. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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