"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. Wood," she continued, in an authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, "one word before you set out. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. “You vixen!” said Mr. Instead, her husband was probably wise. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. “After all, why should he be surprised?” she remarked. Wood. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. " "Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Jack.
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