On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. There's a man dying—Captain Darrell. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. CHAPTER III.
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