Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. She felt she was now near her boy, and, nothing doubting her ability to rescue him from his perilous situation, she breathed a fervent prayer for his deliverance; and bending her steps towards the tavern in question, revolved within her mind as she walked along the best means of accomplishing her purpose. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. " "There it is;" replied the other, tossing him the glove.
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