She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “No! I want to do without that. . Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased. I want to know—just as much as I can. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. 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.
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