" And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. In another instant, the collision took place. Now He has taken that out and given it form and beauty—you!" "Wonderful hand!" Ruth seized his right hand and kissed it. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless.
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