Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. Most unsatisfactory. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. "Pray, make no further mystery; but tell me all without reserve. You have told me that you cared.
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