Anna stepped back at once with a little gasp of relief. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars—quick—quick!" These commands were promptly obeyed. Lucy ate without passion. F. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel.
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