. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. John Sheppard. ‘He is not in England, you understand. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. What is there?” “Tristan. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. " "Ah, I see.
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