Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Luckily I’m not. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. He shook his head. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man’s clothes and manners were alike undesirable things. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed.
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