Go away now, there’s a good lad. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. His lips parted in a rare smile. “For no other reason than you talk too much.
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