"Speak, or I fire!" "Well, if you will have it, it's Sir Rowland Trenchard. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "And now," said Thames, (for we must still preserve the name,) "you will no longer defer my happiness. Let me walk you to the door.
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