You're in luck to-night, widow. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts. "I've done with you. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. To—to find myself. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII.
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