" "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. I don’t know. He was a little embarrassed. "Something more than whisky did that. " "Bah!" returned the woollen-draper. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. \"Thanks. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary.
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