"Stay, dear Thames!—stay!" cried the little girl. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. “Who can tell?” she said. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it.
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