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“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. All concerned in the dark transaction must have perished. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive.
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