At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. “It is unimportant,” she said. . There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “No,” she answered, reluctantly. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes. “I will not have this slavery. I have never loved you. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance.
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