"It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. “But it is so difficult——” “Not at all,” he answered eagerly. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. ’ ‘So I see. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. .
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