‘Wait for me. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. She paused for a moment. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. ” He stared at her incredulously, and she laughed very softly. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts.
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