"Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. And empty. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. "You have lived over here?"—astonished. I had that coming. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. She is curiously altered in many ways. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. "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. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again.
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