“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment’s hesitation, A.
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