A girl—at my age—is grown-up. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. “Once or twice. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. She could feel her face turning beet red. You act your part capitally, but it won't do. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt.
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