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PAUL CLIFFORD.
159

ing from his flute tones in which the melancholy beauty of the air compensated for any deficiency (the deficiency was but slight) in the execution. A woman, much younger than the musician, and with something of beauty in her countenance, accompanied him, holding a tattered hat, and looking wistfully up at the windows of the silent street. We said two forms—we did the injustice of forgetfulness to another—a rugged and simple friend it is true, but one that both minstrel and wife had many and moving reasons to love. This was a little wirey terrier, with dark, piercing eyes, that glanced quickly and sagaciously in all quarters from beneath the shaggy covert that surrounded them; slowly the animal moved onward, pulling gently against the string by which he was held, and by which he guided his master. Once, his fidelity was tempted, another dog invited him to play, the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round, and then uttering a low growl of denial, pursued

"The noiseless tenour of his way."