Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. The great world outside! She stood motionless beside the trunk, deep in speculation; and thus the doctor found her. ’ The girl bit her lip and backed a little, while her husband shifted to stand at her side. I was—I was a corespondent. 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.
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