His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. "I'm armed; you are not.
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