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Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance.
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