Time—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five and thirty years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden mean of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honor of that country-side, whose name was Marion. But as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.
THE END.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
NEW WORK BY BOZ.