Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. I haven’t, anyhow. Every one looked at Anna. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot.
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