“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. Later in the evening she heard him whistling, poor man! She felt very restless and excited. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. "What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—"I advised you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense, did I! I advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? I advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? I counselled all this, I suppose. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see if he won't take us for a junket on The Tigress.
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