"So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. Love and companionship. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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