The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr. "Will he consent, to be searched?" inquired Jonathan. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. You couldn’t help it. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. "I didn't imagine for a moment that you'd accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. “You needn’t say a word more,” Mr.
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