Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. I'll call it my wedding gift. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. It’s not you—not a bit. A trial always brings those involved into public notice, and I dare say he feels there will be scandal enough without adding to it.
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