I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. ‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler.
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