Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. ” “Ye—e—es. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. But, perhaps Mr. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. Could you give me any references?” “There is Mr. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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