'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. She ought to have leapt back on guard. You know how stubborn they get. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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