Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. 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. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. Only a book detective could dope this out. . ” She paused. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open.
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