‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Better come another morning.
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