And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. " "You see, we didn't know but you might die; and so we had to search your belongings for the address of your people. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name.
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