But they were too late. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. He too looked at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally came to a dead stop. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it.
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