"He stands before you," rejoined her son. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. . Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. A sinister thought edged in. You have betrayed me. “Well, because I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. ‘But that will do for a start. ” “I suppose all IS well that ends well.
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