"Not a cent," says selfish Prudence; and I drop it from my fingers.

"Think," says the good angel, "of the poor stranger in a strange land, just escaped from the terrors of the sea-storm, in which his little property has perished, thrown half-naked and helpless on our shores, ignorant of our language, and unable to find employment suited to his capacity." "A vile impostor!" replies the lefthand sentinel.

"His paper, purchased from one of those ready-writers in New York who manufacture beggar-credentials at the low price of one dollar per copy, with earthquakes, fires, or shipwrecks, to suit customers." Amidst this confusion of tongues I take another survey of my visitant.
Ha! a light dawns upon me.

That shrewd old face, with its sharp, winking eyes, is no stranger to me.

Pietro Frugoni, I have seen thee before.