"Hoddy, Hoddy!… No, no! This is my father!" warned Ruth. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. 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. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. .
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