"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. At this moment, a coach passed them, and was instantly hailed by Thames. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. "Ah! what is that?" he cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face. Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it behoves us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate would, in any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked.
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