Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. "Get from under it, Jack!" vociferated Thames. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. The chance had gone. Darrell's eyes were of that clear gray which it is difficult to distinguish from blue by day and black at night; and his rich brown hair, which he could not consent to part with, even on the promise of a new and modish peruke from his adoptive father, fell in thick glossy ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas Jack's close black crop imparted the peculiar bullet-shape we have noticed, to his head.
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