"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. White?” she asked, laughing. “In fact, yes, I do. I consented to become Mrs. ” Anna moved softly to the window, and threw up the sash. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob round it—thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses.
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