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In another instant, the collision took place. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly. " "That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess," returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. "Here I am, Captain," cried a voice from without. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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