The Master of the Mint, in the exercise of his two-fold office of governor and publican, was mounted upon a chair, and holding forth to his guests in a speech, to which Mrs. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. ” He fell back in his chair with an expression of tremendous desolation. The boy she had loved was gone.
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