"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. “Every one. " "For you!" exclaimed Jonathan; "don't flatter yourself that I'm thinking of you. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing.
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