There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. But it would serve. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. Before he even glanced at the man on the floor he stepped over to her side and took the poker from her. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. ” “Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark.
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