Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. Love stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were bound in paper; Romance lay unalterably within. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. “Who are you?” She asked innocently.
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