Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. "What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up.
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