She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Dump and the village authorities, it was agreed to lock up the prisoner in the cage. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come.
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