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" "What time is it?" inquired Jack. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. "To the world's end," answered Jack, darting after him. Presently he felt motion. ‘I do not understand you. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. . In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade.
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