The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 227, 15 January 1876, Page 3

The Novelist.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. A MATTER-OF-FACT STORY. (From Cassell's Magazine.) Chapter XLIV. One more incident in the quiet life of Grace Heathcote. An event which was not calculated to add anything to the sum total of her happiness, grateful as conquest is to beauty. The particularly fine evenings of that early autumn, coupled with the recollection that croquet is a game not to be played with comfort after the middle of October, did not tend to cause any diminution in the frequency of Lord Launton's visits to Parkside. He always had some good excuse for coming, and he did not want much pressing to take a mallet and join the little party on the lawn when he was there ; but out of mere shyness, he seemed on every occasion to pay more court to Lucy than to Grace. It happened that, a very few days after Lord Hunslope's conversation with Dick Mortiboy, Mrs. Heathcote had Lawyer Battiscombe, his wife, and daughters, from Market; Basing, spending the afternoon with her. Mrs. Heathcote—who was very fond o£ showing her town friends the beauties and conveniences of country life, heartily loving t hear them praise everything that appertained to Parkside, and secretly rejoicing over their envy—had strolled with her friend as far as the little cottage where the poultry-womea lived, and where her turkeys and chickens were kept. The two ladies, with the skirts of their silks well bunched up in fro nt of them, had hardly struggled through the ramshackle wicket into the poultry-yard, when Mrs. Battiscombe exclaimed, —

"Look, dear—there's a young gentleman coming to us. Why, isn't it Lord Launton f* she added, letting down the train of her dress, quite in a flutter. Her friend was delighted. If there was one thing necessary to complete her triumph over the pretensions of the Battiscombe girls, it was to show off Lord Launton to their mother. She had been secretly hoping, ever since tea, that he would come. But she said, calmly enough,— " Oh, yes, it's only Lord Launton. I dare say he wants to see- me or John about something." He ' came up, raised his hat to the ladies most politely, and began to stammer out his business to Mrs. Heathcote. " I am a sort of deputation, Mrs. Heathcote." " Yes, your lordship," said the lady, smiling very graciously. " The boy's cricket ground in the park is spoilt now—we have so many things in one part, and in the other the ground is not level; and I am come to ask Mr. Heathcote to be good enough to let them play in his home field till the end of the season. It won't be long before it is over now."

The young man took a great deal of trouble to promote athletics among the Hunslope boys. " I dare say he will, if they don't do any mischief," said Mrs. Heathcote ; "but boys are so mischievous."

" You see, the field is close to the school ; and they must have a cricket-ground close at hand, if we can get them one. May Igo and look if the ground will do, if Mr. Heathcote says we may have it ? I think the field is very level."

The home close was on the other side of the hedge. "It is so close to my poultry-yard," said Mrs. Heathcote ; they all run in the field. I'm afraid the boys will pelt the guinea fowl and hens. We have often had one killed, haven't we, Mrs. Thompson ?" With the honest bluntness of speech, and stark insensibility to the claims of the peerage to complaisant treatment, which is characteristic of our peasantry when they happen to be somebody else's tenants, Mrs. Thompson replied,— " That we have indeed, ma'am. There was the white speckly hen only last week ; and a parcel of young tearbacons a-rommackin' all over the field, no poultry won't do no good—to say nothing of getting fat." " I'll be answerable for the good conduct of the ' tearbacons,' " said Lord Launton. " It is a good deal nearer my hencoops than I like, your lordship ; but I've no doubt Mr. Heathcote will give the boys leave." She meant to prevent him from doing it, though, all the same. There was a pause in the conversation, broken at last by Lord Launton ; who, feeling it a duty to say something, remarked, a little nervously,— "What very fine turkeys you have, Mrs. Heathcote." The woman who kept the poultry showed the visitors her collection of birds. " Take that water away from the coop with the ducks in," said her mistress. And then, turning to Lord Launton, she said, — " They are two couples we're fattening, and I don't like to let 'em swill the barley-meal out as fast as they put it in." The young man smiled. " But, poor things, are they not thirsty this warm weather ?"

"I don't know," replied the business-like lady—"they'vegot to get fat." Lord Launton moralized to himself on the miseries of the poultry-yard, until they were joined by Mr. Heathcote, who had come across hia fields.

He gave his promise about the cricketeround, much, to his wife's chagrin. They strolled back to the house together, and joined the little party on the croquet lawn. Sides were chosen afresh. John Heathcote, Grace, and Lord Launton played Lawyer Battiscombe, his two daughters, and Lucy. Mrs Battiscombe was charmed ; but so was Mrs. Heathcote. The two dowagers sat under a great elm, on the rising ground at the top of the garden, where they had a view of the road and the village. • "Really, he's very affable," remarked Mrs. Battiscombe. " He often comes over and plays at croquet. "We like him very well." " I hope he won't run away with one ot the girls' hearts, my dear," said the lawyer s lady —as it were calling " check " to Lydia s king. She put her ring-bedizened hand affectionately on Mrs. Heathcote's arm. "I never think of such things, Mary, Ihey had been schoolfellows at Miss Prims, and kept up the farce of Christian names, though neither had loved the other for ages. He often comes to see us, and John likes him—that's all." , ~ . •. "Of course, we could never expect that he would be allowed—" Mrs. Battiscombe began ; but her remark was stopped by hearing the sound of wheels. " A carriage and pair ! Why, it is Lord Hunslope and the countess, she cried, craning out her neck among the boughs. Now it was Lydia's turn to call check. " Lords are as common as blackberries about Hunslope, my dear. I'm sure we never take any more notice of them than of other folks. ..But she stood up, with her best cap just over the laurel hedge, and when the countess bowed, and Lord Hunslope raised his hat, she gave a complacent, vulgar little nod. Their son saw the carriage, and turned rather red ; but when it stopped at John Heathcote's Sate, and then came on slowly up the gravel drive, he became quite the color of the poppies. The earl got out, and shook hands with the Heathcotes, and bowed to the Battiscombes. Lydia Heathcote took the visit as a matter of course. She left Mrs. Battiscombe under the tree, and strolled up to the carriage. She had never shaken hands with Lady Hunslope before in her life, and only some half-dozen times with his lordship—generally on such occasions as, riding round with his steward, he had called to solicit her husband's vote and interest for the Blues at the country election. But Mrs. Heathcote did not see any good in letting the Battiscombes' —and through them, all Market Basing—know this, and she shaped her course accordingly. Lord Launton, recollecting that it was getting rather late, drove away in his father's carriage. He expected to receive a sorrowing remonstrance from his mother ; for the scion of the house founded by Cadwallader, had very clearly defined notions of the grades set out in the Table of Precedence —and sat, with his back to the horses, calmly awaiting it. It did not come. All his mother said on the subject was comprised in a very few words : that Grace and Lucy Heathcote were very amiable girls, and had very good blood in their veins. William de Heatehcote, of Hunslope, was mentioned in Froissart.

Now you see the effect of Dick Mortiboy's candid confession to the earl. He had been deeply moved by the intelligence that a man so rich—so extraordinarily rich—was seriously promising not only to leave his very great fortune to his cousins, but also to endow them with a portion, when they should marry, fitting their future inheritance.

As for Mrs. Battiscombe, she went home with her maternal breast full of envy and uncharitable feeling, and spread the news all over Market Basing that Grace Heathcote had jilted poor Francis Melliship's son, as she always said she would, and was trying to catch Lord Launton, as if—&c. Mrs. Heathcote, on the other hand, was in an ecstasy of delight. She got down " Burke's Landed Gentry " from the book-case, and read all about William de Heathecote, of Hunslope. She compared the Heathcote pedigree with the Smiths —only city bankers, and so, like her own family, the great Mortiboy stock after all.

Prom these authentic records she drew her own conclusions ; and every day she talked of Lord Launton, praised his personal appearance the youth was by no means ill-looking, having a certain air of nobleness which comes of good breeding, and a mind kept steadily at a certain elevation—commended his manners, which had whatever merit belongs to shyness, and spoke in glowing terms of the happiness which would be the portion of that girl who might become his wife. Now, all this fell upon the ears of Grace like the wind upon a fixed weathercock : it moved her not at all. She did not, to begin with, understand it. In the second place, she was too full of her own cares to think much about them. Least of all did she fancy that the heir of Hunslope Towers was about to propose to her. "Really," she said, "I think, Lucy dear, that Lord Launton has—now, don't blush, my child, because it's quite possible, and you are very pretty—has fallen—fallen—fallen —shall I go on ?" ■ "Grace, dear," said Lucy, blushing more than ever, " Don't —please don't."

" Then I won't, Lucy." And the very next day, Lord Launton proposed to her. Proposed in the garden, just where Dick had made the same offer of his hand and heart. Stammered and blushed—stammered till he could hardly speak ; told her, in an indefinite amount of reduplicated words and any number of consonants, how he loved her.

Grace, this time, .was neither pained nor touched. She only laughed. " Poor boy !" she said. " Do you know that I don't love you at all, and never could ? And do you know that you are the future Earl of Hunslope, and I only the daughter of a very plain gentleman ¥■' "I know," said Lord Launton. "B—b—-

but I have my father's permission, and your father's p—p —" "Prohibition, I should hope," said Grace. " No, Lord Launton. No—NO —NO ! There, is that enough?" The poor young fellow stooped his head to hide his hot face.

"Do I seem unkind ?" Grace asked. " See, Lord Launton, I do not mean to be unkind. I like you very much. I cannot understand how your father could give you permission to speak to me, or my father either. But you may know that I am already engaged —to Prank Melliship, your old schoolfellow." " I knew —that is, I ought to have known. G—G —G—Grace, is there no hope ?—not the least hope ?" " Not the least spark. Not a glimmer, Lord Launton. And, besides, you have never paid me any attentions at all. I thought you liked Lucy better." " That was b —b—because I loved you." _ " I don't profess to understand the workings of a man's love ; but I do-know this, that when Frank Melliship loved me, he did not make pretence to my sister first. He came straight to me." ' " I was wrong. Oh ! Miss Heathcote, I m a p—p —poor creature. I stammer, and am afraid almost to speak. Forgive my shyness." " Indeed, there is nothing to forgive. But, pray, Lord Launton —no, I won't ask any more questions. Let all be as it was before. Come here as much as you like, and let us be friends. Shall it be so ? Indeed, lam grateful for the honor —that is, I think I shall be, when lam an old woman. I shall remember that I had a chance of a coronet. But a woman can only love one man, and my love is promised—promised, Lord Launton." She sighed wearily. Promised —and for how long ? Poor Lord Launton stood irresolute. His painful shyness interposed between himself and all his impulses. He beat it down, and said, with a mighty effort — " Miss Heathcote forget what I have said. I will endeavor to conquer my love for you. I am not a selfish egotist—that is, I will try not to be. If I can help your let me try to do so." " You may help Frank, if you can. But alas ! you cannot. Oh, Lord Launton, why have you brought this unlooked-for misery into the house ?"

"What misery, my dear Miss Heathcote — what misery?" " It is only that my poor dear mother will be dazzled by the chance that I have thrown away ; and I, shall have to endure her reproaches. Go, Lord Launton. If you must marry one of us, Lucy is a better match for you—not so stubborn, not so rebellious, not so self-willed ; and oh, a great deal prettier, more gentle, more Christian. She would make a better wife. Go away, my dear boy. Why, you are only a month older. th*in I am—you are only a boy yet, Lord Launton. And lam as tall as you, see —" She smiled through her tears. " And oh, it is such a pity, because I was so fond of you." She took his beardless face in her hands—she was really as tall as her admirer, and looked taller, with her pile of hair—and drew it towards her, and kissed him on the forehead. "There, Ronald, Lord Launton, that is a sister's kiss. It would be hard to alter that. We have known each other as long as—oh, since we were little things, and used to meet you in the Pond Walk with your nurse. Be my friend—a great deal better for you, poor boy, than being my husband. Go, now, and come again just as usual." It was a most ignominious dismissal. The heii of Hunslope Towers, conscious of having made himself an outrageous idiot, stole silently away. As he went through the house, he met Mrs. Heathcote. Truth to say, the poor lady had been to the highest rooms in the house, the servants' rooms, whose windows commanded a view of the heads of the performers in this garden act. " Come in, Lord Launton, and talk to me, she said, graciously. " No, Mrs. Heathcote," he stammered. "No —it's no use. She won't listen to me." " Not listen to you ? Nonsense ! Not listen to you ? Oh ! Give her time, Lord Launton. She's afraid of you." «No -no—no. It is I who was af—f—fraid of her," he groaned. "It is no use, Mrs. Heathcote —I am refused." Mrs. Heathcote went back to her parlor, and sat in a tumult of conflicting passions. Presently her husband came home. She said nothing. Lucy returned from choir practice. Grace came down from her own room, her eyes red with crying. She sat silent, with a book before her. Mr. Heathcote rang the bell for supper at the usual hour. They sat down, Mrs. Heathcote sighing heavily. " What's the matter, old lady ?" asked John, with a misgiving that a family row was impending. For all reply, she burst into tears, and sighed hysterically. The girls ran to her assistance. "Go away," she said to Grace. "Go away, ungrateful girl ! After all I've done for you."

"Eh ? eh ? eh ?" asked John, looking from one to the other. " What is it, Grace ?" " Wicked girl," cried her mother. "Oh ! John, John—a coronet thrown away ! Half a million of money thrown away ! Grace, I was in the garden and heard you refuse your cousin a week ago ; and now you have refused Lord Launton. John Heathcote, your daughter Grace refuses to marry either Dick Mortiboy or the future heir of Hunslope, because she loves a pauper—a pauper and a painter." Grace turned to her father.

" Papa, Dick asked me to marry him, and Lord Launton asked me to marry him. I was obliged to say ' No,' because I am engaged to Frank." Mr. Heathcote sat down to the table, and cut himself deliberately a great slice of cold boiled beef, with a meditative air. Then he took some pickles ; and then, having meanwhile turned the matter over in his mind, he said—

"Girls, sit down. Lydia, you're a fool. Grace shall marry anybody she likes. Come here, my dear, and kiss your father." When John Heathcote put his foot down, which was very seldom, there was a general feeling in everybody's mind that the thing was definitely settled. Mrs. Heathcote said no more'; but, heaving a profound sigh, she rang the bell for a candle, and retired to bed, taking the Bible with her, so that she might, at least, have the consolations of religion. Chapter XLV. No intelligence of Frank's whereabouts. " We only know that he receives our letters," wrote Kate, "because he answers them. They go to the post-office, Great Bedford-street. His own have for the last two or three weeks been more despondent, that is, less cheerful than ever before. They have not the true ring about them that they had. I think, though I dare not say so to mamma, that his good spirits are forced. I have written and told him about Dick's splendid offer. It is generous in the highest degree. It is more than generous. Tell him I think it is noble. I shall not write to him myself, till I have Frank's answer. Yes, Grace, my picture was accepted, hung and sold. I was at once glad to get the money, and sorry to let the picture go. I am doing another now, just a woodland scene —painted here in the mountains—with a single figure in it ; a quiet picture, which I hope to succeed with. Only, when I have finished a picture I like, it goes to my heart to let it be sold. Frank keeps sending us money. It is such a pity, because we really do not want any. We have plenty. And we are happy again. Only nine months ago, Gracie, and what a difference! —what a difference !"

Thus far Kate Melliship. Grace showed the letter to Dick.

" There are two or three ways," he said, "of getting hold of Frank. A man can't hide himself altogether unless he cuts off communication by letter. Evidently he doesn't want at present to be hunted up. All the same, I will go up to London and find him for you, Gracie."

" But how, Dick ! How can you find him ?" " Well, I shall go to the post-office where his letters are sent. I shall ask them who takes his letters, and how often they are sent for. If they won't tell me, I shall bribe them till they do. They are sure to do it for half a sovereign. After that, we have only to go on the day when he appears, and lie in wait to catch him beautifully. Once my hand is on his shoulder, Grace, you may be sure that I don't let him go again till I bring him back to you." "When will you go, Dick?" she asked eagerly. " To-morrow ? Go to-morrow, and make haste. I've got some foolish sort of nervous feeling, as if something was going to happen. I don't know what, or how. I've had it for a week. I suppose I'm not very well."

" Thunder in the air," said Dick. "If anything happens, it will be something good for you. So be ready to jump for joy." That evening he told his little boy of his intention to go to London, and, still suspicious that Polly, of whom he knew nothing beyond the fact that she drew her pound a-week, might return in his absence and carry off the boy, he told him to be ready in the morning to go to town with him.

The fast train from Market Basing leaves at nine o'clock, and is at Euston at half-past ten. They started to walk to the station, for Dick hated luggage and always kept changes of raiment and fine linen at his chambers in Jermyn-street. Crossing the river, Dick bethought him that he had not seen his father for some days. So he passed through the garden into the house. Mr. Mortiboy was in his bed. Hester was feeding him with a spoon ; his breakfast consisting of bread and milk. He frowned at his son as usual, and then quietly took his milk a spoonful at a time until the basin was emptied. Dick sat by the side of his bed, and watched him eat. His appetite was very good; altogether there was a great change in him. The fixed smile had almost left his mouth, and the distortion of his face was much less noticeable. Then his eyes was brighter, his memory better, the clcud seems to be gradually lifting from his mind. As his son sat by his bedside watching Hester feed the old man, and thinking of all that had happened, suddenly there flashed upon his memory an old, old day, so long ago that it had never once come back to him : a day more than a quarter of a century old : an autumn day like the. present, when the golden tints were on the leaves ; a morning when a child he walked hand-in-hand with his father, and asked him questions. He remembered how his father, lifting him in his arms, stroked his cheeks and kissed him ; how he flung his own arms round his neck and kissed his father afpin. A simple childish caress : it might h ■ ■; occurred a thousand times to most children ; to Dick it seemed only to have occurred once, because Mr. Mortiboy was an undemonstrative man, and with him such events were rare. As he remembered this, another thought came upon him : it was, that never once since that day, save when his own crime caused relapse, had his father's love ceased to burn in a steady flame. He knew it now ; he recognised it even in the starved and pinched life he had been made to lead even in the tyranny of his youth ; even in his hard work and long hours to which his father subjected him—all this was to make him grow up like himself —and in the ready confidence and trust with which he received the prodigal returning home. He knew it all, in a single moment, and a sharp pain shot through him as he looked upon the wreck he had himself caused. Dick was not one, however, to sit down and weep, throwing ashes upon his head and clothing himself with sackcloth. The though came to°him, as one which might often come again, a grave and saddening thought ; his thoughts turned upon the boy whom he had adopted. Suppose little Bill should do something, should turn out somehow like himself. Then he cleared his throat, which was getting husky,

and bent slightly over his father —Old Hester had left them alone together. "Father," he said, "let us be friends again —I am sorry." The old man moved his slow eyes upward* with a puzzled expression. Dick looked at him, waiting, but no response came. ,-. He joined the boy, and they set off together to walk to the station. When Hester came back, she found Mr. Mortiboy looking troubled, and a tear or two had rolled down his withered cheeks.

" Bill," said Dick, in the train—he was quite accustomed to converse on all topics with the boy, who understood or not, as the case might be—" Bill, I wonder if we are going to have a collision and burst up." " Why, uncle Dick ?" " Because the Mexicans say that when a man is going to die he begins to think.about the days when he was a child. That's what I've been doing this morning. The only way you can be killed in this peaceful old country is by a railway accident." "I saw a boy once, run over by a 'bus," said Bill, thoughtfully. " Yes— there are other ways, I suppose. But a smash on a railway is the most likely thing. Perhaps, after all, the Mexicans are not always right." There was no railway accident, at any rate. At his chambers he found a letter, dated a fortnight and more back, from Lafleur. "My dear Dick," it ran, " I am in want of money. Please send me a couple of hundred at once." "In any case," said. Dick, "it is too late now. Want of money ? What has been done with the five thousand ? The System has come to grief, I suppose, after all ?" It was not pleasant to think about. The man had been started actually with all the money he asked. The partnership was dissolved ; the pair had separated, each agreed to go his own way, and yet, only two months after, came this letter. Dick crushed it in his fingers, looking stern and determined. "It shall not be," he said, thinking aloud. " Polly is gone, and Lafleur shall go. I will have no witnesses left to remind me of the old days. I will live my own life now, with the boy to bring up. Lafleur shall not be with us to bring back what I would forget. No, M. Alcide Lafleur, it will not do. Your own secrets are .as bad as mine, and worse. You dare not speak, at any rate." I will give you one more start, on condition that you go away to California, or somewhere over the water, and never come back again. You shall not stand in my way. I defy any man to stand in my way. My path is clear and certain. I will start Frank and Ghrimes. Then I will go away and stay away for ten years with the boy. And then I will come back, and put him out in life, and settle down. I shall be turned forty then. I shall never marry. I have said so. There will be other children then, Grace's children, to amuse me. I shall spend the rest of my life, thirty years and more, among the children."

He took no notice of the letter, and went on to the post-office, to find out Frank, if possible. It was a poor little post-office, kept by a bookseller in a small way, perhaps a man who should be described as one who sold small books. Specimens of his ware were in the window, cheap religious books mostly, and the doorway was filled with the affiche boards of daily papers. Dick found a woman behind the counter, and stated his business. " I—l—don't think it's hardly regular," she said. "People come and get their letters here, but I don't know that I ought to tell you anything about them." "There's five shillings, now you will tell me." It was blunt, but effective. The woman took the shillings, put them in her pocket, and went on at once.

" I don't ktiow anything about the gentleman who has the letters addressed to him as Mr. Melliship. Sometimes he comes, a tall, fairhaired young man, quite the gentleman; sometimes it's a young person." " A girl, you mean ? A young lady ?" She smiled superior, and tossed her head. "Not a lady, I should say, certainly. At least, I wouldn't compare her with myself. A young woman, sir." " Pretty, as well as young ?" She bridled up. " That's a matter of opinion. I don't hold with a pink and rose face, and a bit of false hair."

"Is that all you can tell me ?" "That's all, sir, I'm sorry to say." " Then you've taken five shillings out of me on false pretences," said Dick, pretending to be in a rage. " I've a great mind to reiJort you to head quarters." The woman turned all colors. " Well, I won't this time, if you'll tell Mr. Melliship, or the young person, the next time the letters are asked for, that his cousin has been to see him, and wants him particularly. On what day does the young person come V

•' On Monday morning, always, sir, about eleven o'clock, unless he comes himself. Quite the gentleman, he is. He was in the neighborhood of Gray's Innroad, and thought of Mrs. Kneebone's ; he took his way down that thoroughfare with a view of finding out if Polly had been there, and what she had done. Sitting at the entrance of the court was the boy Thoozy, looking wistfully down in the direction of Holborn. It was down the street that little Bill had gone with the swell ; and he naturally expected that it was by that way he would return. Dick touched him on the shoulder.

He jumped up on his crutches, and grinned a perfect pasan of joy. "Well, Thoozy," said Dick, "and how's things ?" " How's little Bill ?" returned Thoozy. " Well and strong. He sent you a message a little while ago by a tramp. Didn't you get it?" "Never," said Thoozy. "Never. What was it ?"

" Only to send his love, and you were not to forget him." "I never forgets him," said the poor boy. *' I got no one to talk to now he's gone ; and the old woman's took on dreadful with drink ever since the clay Polly Tresler came."

"Ah ! what was that ? Tell me all about it, boy. Come into the court and sit upon your own step." Mrs. Kneebone saw them coming up the road, and trembled. Was further information wanted, and should she expose herself to another assault, of an aggravated nature ? She decided at once on her Hue of action, and, putting on her shawl, she took a jusf, and a big key, so as to show that she meant business, and sallied down the steps. " Me-thew-salem," she said, with great sweetness, " I'm obliged for to go out a little bit. Take care of them blessed children while I'm away. Good morning, sir. And it's hoping you found all that I told you c'rect." Dick nodded his head, and she passed on, seeing no prospect of further coin. " Now, Thoozy," said Dick, tell me all about it."

If Methusalem had been born in a somewhat higher sphere of life ; if he had not been larne ; if his flesh, which was weak, had been equal to his spirit, which was strong ; if he had been educated for the stage ; he might have made a low comedian of a very unusual kind. His talent was prodigious, but his training was defective.

With an instinctive feeling that a vivid picture of Mrs. Kneebone's discomfiture and Polly's subsequent disaster would be appreciated, Thoozy enacted the whole scene with a dramatic verve which set the tragedy vividly before his listener. The boy forgot his lameness and infirmity, mimicked their voices, alternately doing Mrs. Kneebone with her conciliatory hypocrisy, and Polly with her sulky disbelief. When he put in the finishing touch of Mrs. Kneebone's really illnatured remark about himself, Dick roared with laughter.

"Look here, boy," he said, "you are not very anxious, I suppose, to stay here all your life ?"

"I'm an old man," said Thoozy, with a comical leer. " I'm getting very old, and past work. I used to think I'd stay on here all my days ; but now little Bill is gone, and I get nobody to talk to, I think a change might do me good. My doctor did recommend," he added, waving his hand grandly, "that I should take six months' holiday, and go to one of our country seats. With port wine. Says I must drink port wine, three glasses a day. As the resident physician, I couldn't spare the time ; but if you press me very hard, I might get away for a bit. I say, sir," he went on, in a changed voice, " let me see Jittle Bill again. I won't do him no harm. I never did that I knows on. Let me have a talk with him once more, only once." Dick hesitated. Why should he not take the boy away ? With all his quaint affectations, his oddities, and infirmities, he could do no harm to his adopted son. Why not take him too ? He took out a card case, and printed his address on a card in pencil.

" I live here. You can read that ? Good. Jermyn-street, off Regent-street. Now be careful, and listen. Little Bill is with me there. You make your way at once to St. James's Park. Wait about the door of the Duke of York's Column. I will send Bill to you, or bring him if he doesn't know the way."

" Bill not know the way ! He knows his way, like a ferret, all over London, even where he hasn't been. Bill wasn't along with me for nothing." " Good. You two boys may spend the whole day together ; bring him back to Jermyn-street at nine. As the clock strikes, mind." " I will. Sharp at nine."

Dick considered a moment.

" Bill's got good clothes now, too," he said. " Would you like some decent things to put on ?" Thoozy looked at hia old coat and his torn trousers, and sighed. "Come, then. I know a man close by." He took him to the same dealer who had refitted little Bill, and provided him with a suit of clothes, including stockings—quite unknown to Thoozy, except by hearsay, up to that time—better than he had ever dreamed of.

"Now you've plenty of time, go into Endellstreet, and have a bath, brush your hair 1 , and make yourself quite respectable." He gave him a few shillings to complete his arrangements, and walked away. Thoozy went back to the court, amid the jeers of the populace—who recognised him, in spite of his grandeur—just to see that the babies were not coming to any harm, rescuing an infant from imminent suffocation, by reason of a corner of the sheet, which it mistook, through want of experience, for the mouth of a feeding bottle. Thoozy shook them all up, and went his way.

It was one o'clock when Dick got back to Jermyn-street.

" There's a friend of yours wants to see you very much," he said to his ward. " Thoozy ! Thoozy !" cried the boy, with delight. "That is the party. Are you hungry, Bill V "Very little, Uncle Dick." " Got any money ?" Little Bill produced two and fourpence from his pocket. "Go on, then. You can have your dinner with Methusalem, where you like. You know your way to the Duke of York's Column. Wait there till you see him."