He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. "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. " And then his interest would cease. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour.
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