Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. ” He was slightly tipsy. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. It was red and chapped. Never any doubt of it.
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