. . While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. ’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy. “Never. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. But let that verse tell my secret. "Because I knew what you wanted me for!" answered Thames firmly. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease.
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