"Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Your life is like a funeral March. The popcorn dwindled to a half a bucket, his heart settled into its normal routine. " "Be still!" returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great selfpossession: "I can yet save you. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Suddenly a half stifled exclamation broke from Anna’s lips.
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