"This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. " "No more of this," said Winifred, angrily. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. "You frighten the cull out of his senses.
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