The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared.
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