The boy was coming around. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. Your life is like a funeral March. “We parted— that night the best of friends.
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