You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. We remember it. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. Stanley, consenting with dignity.
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