” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. Come and have lunch with me. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. A lovely, fetching girl.
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