It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. “It does nothing but sit there. . From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy you again. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. ’ ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything. \" He said to her after he bought his own ticket. .
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