"Oh God!" exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. She could not bear the shame of it. But I may yet live to thwart them. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. "Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly.
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