"You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. Why, there's another party on the stair-head inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater hurry than any on us. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it.
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