Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture.
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