She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. Do have another. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. "I strangled him—ha! ha! ha!—strangled him while he was at my breast—ha! ha!"—And then with a sudden and fearful change of look, she added, "That's what has driven me mad, I killed my child to save him from the gallows—oh! oh! One man hanged in a family is enough. " Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless. "Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen.
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