"The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up. "You mistake,—you are mine. "You know my motive well enough," answered Jonathan. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Escape was now impossible.
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