And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. Here Marvel, the executioner, who was in attendance, was commanded by Wild to tie his thumbs together, which he did with whipcord so tightly, that the string cut to the bone. "I must go. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. “Sold again,” she remarked.
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