In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. I hope I may never come near her. She looked at him mournfully. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated. " "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. \"I guess so. She wanted to know.
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