It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. Herein was the sum of human knowledge in essence. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. He took up his hat and went.
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