"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs.
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