"By Jove!" ejaculated the fastidious youth, "there isn't as much as a

hook in the wall to hang one's coat on. It's lucky we brought up our

carpet-bags with us, else we should have to look out a clean spot on the

floor for our clothes."

Ashburner was not very much disconcerted. He had traveled in so many

countries, notwithstanding his youth, that he could pass his nights

anyhow. In fact, he had never been at a loss for sleep in his life,

except on one occasion, when, in Galway, a sofa was assigned to him at

one side of a small parlor, on the other side of which three Irish

gentlemen were making a night of it.

So they said their prayers, and went to bed, like good boys. But their

slumbers were not unbroken. Ashburner dreamed that he was again in

Venice, and that the musquitoes of that delightful city, of whose

venomousness and assiduity he retained shuddering recollections, were

making an onslaught upon him in great numbers; while Benson awoke toward

morning with a great outcry; in apology for which he solemnly assured

his friend, that two seconds before he was in South Africa, where a lion

of remarkable size and ferocity had caught him by the leg. And on rising

they discovered some spots of blood on the bed-clothes, showing that

their visions had not been altogether without foundation in reality.

The Hardscrabble hotel, grand in its general outlines, had overlooked

the trifling details of wash-stands and chamber crockery. Such of these

articles as it _did_ possess, were very properly devoted to the use of

the ladies; and accordingly Ashburner and Benson, and forty-five more,

performed their matutinal ablutions over a tin basin in the bar-room,

where Harry astonished the natives by the production of his own

particular towel and pocket comb. The weather had cleared up

beautifully, the railroad was repaired, and the train ready to start as

soon as breakfast was over. After this meal, as miscellaneous as their

last night's supper, while the passengers were discharging their

reckoning, Ashburner noticed that his friend was unusually fussy and

consequential, asked several questions, and made several remarks in a

loud tone, and altogether seemed desirous of attracting attention. When

it came to his turn to pay, he told out the amount, not in the ordinary

dirty bills, but in hard, ringing half-dollars, which had the effect of

drawing still further notice upon him.

"Five dollars and a quarter," said Benson, in a measured and audible

tone; "and, Landlord, here's a quarter extra."

The landlord looked up in surprise; so did the two or three men standing

nearest Harry.

"It's to buy beef with, to feed 'em. Feed 'em well now, don't forget!"

"Feed 'em! feed who?" and the host looked as if he thought his customer

crazy.

"Feed _who_? Why look here!" and bending over the counter, Harry uttered

a portentous monosyllable, in a pretended whisper, but really as audible

to the bystanders as a stage aside. Three or four of those nearest

exploded.

"Yes, feed 'em _well_ before you put anybody into your beds again, or

you'll have to answer for the death of a fellow-Christian some day,

that's all. Good morning!" And taking his wife under his arm, Benson

stalked off to the cars with a patronizing farewell nod, amid a

sympathetic roar, leaving the host irresolute whether to throw a

decanter after him, or to join in the general laugh.

* * * * *

Hook and one of his friends happened to come to a bridge. "Do you know

who built this bridge?" said he to Hook. "No, but if you go over you'll

be tolled."

[From the December number of Graham's Magazine.]

TO A CELEBRATED SINGER.

BY R.H. STODDARD.

Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,

The wedded melody of lute and voice,

Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,

And woke its inner harmonies divine.

And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,

And Tempe hallows all its purple vales,

Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,

All night entranced beneath the gloomy trees;

But music, nightingales, and all that Thought

Conceives of song is naught

To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,

And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!

A thousand lamps were lit--I saw them not--

Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,

Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;

I only thought of thee!

Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,

But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,

Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,

Above the clouds of Song.

Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be

The silent Ministrant of Poesy;

For not the delicate reed that Pan did play

To partial Midas at the match of old,

Nor yet Apollo's lyre, with chords of gold,

That more than won the crown he lost that day;

Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free--

Oh why not all?--the lost Eurydice--

Were fit to join with thee;

Much less our instruments of meaner sound,

That track thee slowly o'er enchanted ground,

Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,

Or glean around its sheaves!

I strive to disentangle in my mind

Thy many-knotted threads of softest song,

Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,

Whose silence does it wrong.

No single tone thereof, no perfect sound

Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;

A sound which was a Soul.

The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around

So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep!

So like a heavenly soul's ambrosial breath,

It would not wake but only deepen Sleep

Into diviner Death!

Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,

Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,

It stole in mockery its every tone,

And left it lone and mute;

It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,

It jangled like a string of golden bells,

It trembled like a wind in golden strings,

It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;

Then it divided and became a shout,

That Echo chased about,

However wild and fleet,

Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!

At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,

Below the thinnest word,

And sunk till naught was heard,

But charmed Silence sighing in its sleep!

Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,

My heart was lost within itself and thee,

As when a pearl is melted in its shell,

And sunken in the sea!

I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but still

I thirsted after more, the more I sank;

A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,

But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;

My inmost soul was drunk with melody,

Which thou didst pour around,

To crown the feast of sound,

And lift to every lip, but chief to me,

Whose spirit uncontrolled,

Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!

Would I could only hear thee once again,

But once again, and pine into the air,

And fade away with all this hopeless pain,

This hope divine, and this divine despair!

If we were only Voices, if our minds

Were only voices, what a life were ours!

My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,

And thine would answer me in summer showers,

At morn and even, when the east and west

Were bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,

We would delay the Morn upon its nest,

And fold the wings of Even!

All day we'd fly with azure wings unfurled,

And gird a belt of Song about the world;

All night we'd teach the winds of night a tune,

While charmed oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!

And when aweary grown of earthly sport,

We'd wind our devious flight from star to star,

Till we beheld the palaces afar,

Where Music holds her court.

Entered and beckoned up the aisles of sound,

Where starry melodies are marshaled round,

We'd kneel before her throne with eager dread,

And when she kissed us melt in trances deep,

While angels bore us to her bridal bed,

And sung our souls asleep!

O Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,

As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,

Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,

And a diviner music in thy heart;

Simplicity and goodness walk with thee,

Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim:

And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,

And Pity sings its hymn.

Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,

But ever active as the sun and rain--

Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain--

Not want alone, but a whole nation's--Friend!

This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;

And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,

This will perpetuate a deathless name,

Where names are deathless--deep in loving hearts!

[From Miss McIntosh's "Christmas Gift."]

THE WOLF-CHASE.

BY C. WHITEHEAD.

During the winter of 1844, being engaged in the northern part of Maine,

I had much leisure to devote to the wild sports of a new country. To

none of these was I more passionately addicted than to skating. The deep

and sequestered lakes of this State, frozen by the intense cold of a

northern winter, present a wide field to the lovers of this pastime.

Often would I bind on my skates, and glide away up the glittering river,

and wind each mazy streamlet that flowed beneath its fetters on toward

the parent ocean, forgetting all the while time and distance in the

luxurious sense of the gliding motion--thinking of nothing in the easy

flight, but rather dreaming, as I looked through the transparent ice at

the long weeds and cresses that nodded in the current beneath, and

seemed wrestling with the waves to let them go; or I would follow on the

track of some fox or otter, and run my skate along the mark he had left

with his dragging tail until the trail would enter the woods. Sometimes

these excursions were made by moonlight, and it was on one of these

occasions that I had a rencounter, which even now, with kind faces

around me, I cannot recall without a nervous looking-over-my-shoulder

feeling.

I had left my friend's house one evening just before dusk, with the

intention of skating a short distance up the noble Kennebec, which

glided directly before the door. The night was beautifully clear. A

peerless moon rode through an occasional fleecy cloud, and stars

twinkled from the sky and from every frost-covered tree in millions.

Your mind would wonder at the light that came glinting from ice, and

snow-wreath, and incrusted branches, as the eye followed for miles the

broad gleam of the Kennebec, that like a jeweled zone swept between the

mighty forests on its banks. And yet all was still. The cold seemed to

have frozen tree, and air, and water, and every living thing that

moved. Even the ringing of my skates on the ice echoed back from the

Moccasin Hill with a startling clearness, and the crackle of the ice as

I passed over it in my course seemed to follow the tide of the river

with lightning speed.

I had gone up the river nearly two miles when, coming to a little stream

which empties into the larger, I turned in to explore its course. Fir

and hemlock of a century's growth met overhead, and formed an archway

radiant with frost-work. All was dark within, but I was young and

fearless, and as I peered into an unbroken forest that reared itself on

the borders of the stream, I laughed with very joyousness: my wild hurra

rang through the silent woods, and I stood listening to the echo that

reverberated again and again, until all was hushed. I thought how often

the Indian hunter had concealed himself behind these very trees--how

often his arrow had pierced the deer by this very stream, and his wild

halloo had here rung for his victory. And then, turning from fancy to

reality, I watched a couple of white owls, that sat in their hooded

state, with ruffled pantalets and long ear-tabs, debating in silent

conclave the affairs of their frozen realm, and wondering if they, "for

all their feathers, were a-cold," when suddenly a sound arose--it seemed

to me to come from beneath the ice; it sounded low and tremulous at

first, until it ended in one wild yell. I was appalled. Never before had

such a noise met my ears. I thought it more than mortal--so fierce, and

amid such an unbroken solitude, it seemed as if a fiend had blown a

blast from an infernal trumpet. Presently I heard the twigs on shore

snap, as if from the tread of some animal, and the blood rushed back to

my forehead with a bound that made my skin burn, and I felt relieved

that I had to contend with things earthly, and not of spiritual

nature--my energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of

escape. The moon shone through the opening at the mouth of the creek by

which I had entered the forest, and considering this the best means of

escape, I darted toward it like an arrow. 'Twas hardly a hundred yards

distant, and the swallow could scarcely excel my desperate flight; yet,

as I turned my head to the shore, I could see two dark objects dashing

through the underbrush at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By

this great speed, and the short yells which they occasionally gave, I

knew at once that these were the much dreaded gray wolf.

I had never met with these animals, but from the description given of

them I had but little pleasure in making their acquaintance. Their

untamable fierceness, and the untiring strength which seems part of

their nature, render them objects of dread to every benighted traveler.

"With their long gallop, which can tire

The deer-hound's hate, the hunter's fire,"

they pursue their prey--never straying from the track of their

victim--and as the wearied hunter thinks he has at last outstripped

them, he finds that they but waited for the evening to seize their prey,

and falls a prize to the tireless animals.

The bushes that skirted the shore flew past with the velocity of

lightning as I dashed on in my flight to pass the narrow opening. The

outlet was nearly gained; one second more and I would be comparatively

safe, when my pursuers appeared on the bank directly above me, which

here rose to the height of ten feet. There was no time for thought, so I

bent my head and dashed madly forward. The wolves sprang, but

miscalculating my speed, sprang behind, while their intended prey glided

out upon the river.

Nature turned me toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the

iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers, when their

fierce howl told me I was still their fugitive. I did not look back, I

did not feel afraid, or sorry, or glad; one thought of home, of the

bright faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they never should see

me, and then every energy of body and mind was exerted for escape. I was

perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I spent on my good

skates, never thinking that at one time they would be my only means of

safety. Every half minute an alternate yelp from my fierce attendants

made me but too certain that they were in close pursuit. Nearer and

nearer they came; I heard their feet pattering on the ice nearer still,

until I could feel their breath and hear their snuffing scent. Every

nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the utmost tension.

The trees along the shore seemed to dance in the uncertain light, and my

brain turned with my own breathless speed, yet still they seemed to hiss

forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when an involuntary

motion on my part turned me out of my course. The wolves close behind,

unable to stop, and as unable to turn on the smooth ice, slipped and

fell, still going on far ahead; their tongues were lolling out, their

white tusks glaring from their bloody mouths, their dark, shaggy breasts

were fleeced with foam, and as they passed me their eyes glared, and

they howled with fury. The thought flashed on my mind, that by this

means I could avoid them, viz., by turning aside whenever they came too

near; for they, by the formation of their feet, are unable to run on ice

except on a straight line.

I immediately acted upon this plan. The wolves, having regained their

feet, sprang directly toward me. The race was renewed for twenty yards

up the stream; they were already close on my back, when I glided round

and dashed directly past my pursuers. A fierce yell greeted my

evolution, and the wolves, slipping upon their haunches, sailed onward,

presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and baffled rage. Thus I

gained nearly a hundred yards at each turning. This was repeated two or

three times, every moment the animals getting more excited and baffled.

At one time, by delaying my turning too long, my fierce antagonists came

so near, that they threw the white foam over my dress as they sprang to

seize me, and their teeth clashed together like the spring of a

fox-trap. Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on a

stick, or caught my foot in a fissure in the ice, the story I am now

telling would never have been told. I thought all the chances over; I

knew where they would first take hold of me if I fell; I thought how

long it would be before I died, and when there would be a search for the

body that would already have its tomb; for oh! how fast man's mind

traces out all the dead colors of death's picture, only those who have

been near the grim original can tell.

But soon I came opposite the house, and my hounds--I knew their deep

voices--roused by the noise, bayed furiously from the kennels. I heard

their chains rattle; how I wished they would break them, and then I

would have protectors that would be peers to the fiercest denizens of

the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in

their mad career, and after a moment's consideration, turned and fled. I

watched them until their dusky forms disappeared over a neighboring

hill. Then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the house, with

feelings which may be better imagined than described.

But even yet, I never see a broad sheet of ice in the moonshine, without

thinking of that snuffling breath and those fearful things that followed

me so closely down the frozen Kennebec.

[From Recollections and Anecdotes of the Bard of Glamorgan.]

STORY OF A POET.

During one of his perambulations in Cardiganshire, the Bard found

himself, on a dreary winter evening, at too great a distance from the

abode of any friend, for him to reach it at a reasonable hour: he was

also more than commonly weary, and therefore turned into a roadside

public house to take up his night's lodgings. He had been there only a

short time, standing before the cheerful fire, when a poor peddler

entered with a pack on his back, and evidently suffering from cold and

fatigue. He addressed the landlord in humble tone, begging he might

lodge there, but frankly avowing he had no money. Trade, he said, had of

late been unfavorable to him--no one bought his goods, and he was making

the best of his way to a more populous district. There were, however,

articles of value in his pack, much more than sufficient to pay for his

entertainment, and he tendered any part of them, in payment, or in

pledge for the boon of shelter and refreshment. The landlord, however,

was one of those sordid beings who regard money as the standard of worth

in their fellow-men, and the want of it as a warrant for insult; he,

therefore, sternly told the poor wayfarer there was no harbor for him

under that roof, unless he had coin to pay for it. Again and again, the

weary man, with pallid looks and feeble voice, entreated the heartless

wretch, and was as often repulsed in a style of bulldog surliness, till

at length he was roughly ordered to leave the house. The bard was not an

unmoved witness of this revolting scene; and his heart had been sending

forth its current, in rapid and yet more rapid pulsations to his now

glowing extremities, as he listened and looked on. He had only one

solitary shilling in his pocket, which he had destined to purchase his

own accommodations for that wintry night; but its destination was now

changed. Here was a needy man requiring it more than himself; and

according to his generous views of the social compact, it became his

duty to sacrifice his minor necessities to the greater ones of his

fellow-creature. Snatching the shilling from its lurking place, he

placed it in the hand of the peddler, telling him _that_ would pay for

his lodging, and lodging he should have, in spite of the savage who had

refused it. Then darting a withering look at the publican, he exclaimed,

"Villain! do you call yourself a man? You, who would turn out a poor

exhausted traveler from your house on a night like this, under any

circumstances! But he has offered you ample payment for his quarters and

you refused him. Did you mean to follow him and rob him--perhaps murder

him? You have the heart of a murderer; you are a disgrace to humanity,

and I will not stay under your roof another minute; but turn out this

poor traveler at your peril--you dare not refuse the money he can now

offer you." Having thus vented his indignant feeling with his usual

heartiness, Iolo seized his staff and walked out into the inclement

night, penniless indeed, and supperless too, but with a rich perception

of the truth uttered by Him who "had not where to lay his head," though

omnipotent as well as universal in his beneficence--"It is more blessed

to give than to receive." A walk of many miles lay between him and his

friend's house, to which he now directed his steps, and by the time he

entered early on the following morning his powers had nearly sunk under

cold and exhaustion. A fever was the sequel, keeping him stationary for

several weeks.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HIRAM POWERS'S GREEK SLAVE.

They say Ideal Beauty cannot enter

The house of anguish. On the threshold stands

This alien Image with the shackled hands,

Called the Greek Slave: as if the artist meant her,

(The passionless perfection which he lent her,

Shadowed, not darkened, where the sill expands,)

To, so, confront man's crimes in different lands,

With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the centre,

Art's fiery finger! and break up ere long

The serfdom of this world. Appeal, fair stone,

From God's pure heights of beauty, against man's wrong!

Catch up, in thy divine face, not alone

East griefs, but west, and strike and shame the strong,

By thunders of white silence, overthrown.

[From Papers for the People.]

THE BLACK POCKET-BOOK.

"What do you pay for peeping?" said a baker's boy with a tray on his

shoulder to a young man in a drab-colored greatcoat, and with a cockade

in his hat, who, on a cold December's night was standing with his face

close to the parlor window of a mean house, in a suburb of one of our

largest seaport towns in the south of England.

Tracy Walkingham, which was the name of the peeper, might have answered

that he paid _dear enough_; for in proportion as he indulged himself

with these surreptitious glances, he found his heart stealing away from

him, till he literally had not a corner of it left that he could fairly

call his own.

Tracy was a soldier; but being in the service of one of his officers,

named D'Arcy, was relieved from wearing his uniform. At sixteen years of

age he had run away from a harsh schoolmaster, and enlisted in an

infantry regiment; and about three weeks previous to the period at which

our story opens, being sent on an early errand to his master's

laundress, his attention had been arrested by a young girl, who, coming

hastily out of an apothecary's shop with a phial in her hand, was

rushing across the street, unmindful of the London coach and its four

horses, which were close upon her, and by which she would assuredly have

been knocked down, had not Tracy seized her by the arm and snatched her

from the danger.

"You'll be killed if you don't look sharper," said he carelessly; but as

he spoke, she turned her face toward him. "I hope my roughness has not

hurt you?" he continued in a very different tone: "I'm afraid I gripped

your arm too hard?"

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said; "you did not hurt me at all.

Thank you," she added, looking back to him as she opened the door of the

opposite house with a key which she held in her hand.

The door closed, and she was gone ere Tracy could find words to detain

her; but if ever there was a case of love at first sight, this was one.

Short as had been the interview, she carried his heart with her. For

some minutes he stood staring at the house, too much surprised and

absorbed in his own feelings to be aware that, as is always the case if

a man stops to look at anything in the street, he was beginning to

collect a little knot of people about him, who all stared in the same

direction too, and were asking each other what was the matter. Warned by

this discovery, the young soldier proceeded on his way; but so engrossed

and absent was he, that he had strode nearly a quarter of a mile beyond

the laundress' cottage before he discovered his error. On his return, he

contrived to walk twice past the house; but he saw nothing of the girl.

He had a mind to go into the apothecary's and make some inquiry about

her; but that consciousness which so often arrests such inquiries

arrested his, and he went home, knowing no more than his eyes and ears

had told him--namely, that this young damsel had the loveliest face and

the sweetest voice that fortune had yet made him acquainted with, and,

moreover, that the possessor of these charms was apparently a person in

a condition of life not superior to his own. Her dress and the house in

which she lived both denoted humble circumstances, if not absolute

poverty, although he felt that her countenance and speech indicated a

degree of refinement somewhat inconsistent with this last conjecture.

She might be a reduced gentlewoman. Tracy hoped not, for if so, poor as

she was, she would look down upon him; she might, on the contrary, be

one of those natural aristocrats, born Graces, that nature sometimes

pleases herself with sending into the world; as in her humorous moments

she not unfrequently does the reverse, bestowing on a princess the

figure and port of a market-woman. Whichever it was, the desire

uppermost in his mind was to see her again; and accordingly, after his

master was dressed, and gone to dinner, he directed his steps to the

same quarter. It was now evening, and he had an opportunity of more

conveniently surveying the house and its neighborhood without exciting

observation himself. For this purpose he crossed over to the

apothecary's door, and looked around him. It was a mean street,

evidently inhabited by poor people, chiefly small retail dealers; almost

every house in it being used as a shop, as appeared from the lights and

the merchandise in the windows, except the one inhabited by the unknown

beauty. They were all low buildings of only two stories; and that

particular house was dark from top to bottom, with the exception of a

faint stripe of light which gleamed from one of the lower windows, of

which there were only two, apparently from a rent or seam in the

shutter, which was closed within. On crossing over to take a nearer

survey, Tracy perceived that just above a green curtain which guarded

the lower half of the window from the intrusions of curiosity, the

shutters were divided into upper and lower, and that there was a

sufficient separation between them to enable a person who was tall

enough to place his eye on a level with the opening, to see into the

room. Few people, however, were tall enough to do this, had they thought

it worth their while to try; but Tracy, who was not far from six feet

high, found he could accomplish the feat quite easily. So, after looking

round to make sure nobody was watching him, he ventured on a peep; and

there indeed he saw the object of all this interest sitting on one side

of a table, whilst a man, apparently old enough to be her father, sat on

the other. He was reading, and she was working, with the rich curls of

her dark-brown hair tucked carelessly behind her small ears, disclosing

the whole of her young and lovely face, which was turned toward the

window. The features of the man he could not see, but his head was

bald, and his figure lank; and Tracy fancied there was something in his

attitude that indicated ill health. Sometimes she looked up and spoke to

her companion, but when she did so, it was always with a serious,

anxious expression of countenance, which seemed to imply that her

communications were on no very cheerful subject. The room was lighted by

a single tallow candle, and its whole aspect denoted poverty and

privation, while the young girl's quick and eager fingers led the

spectator to conclude she was working for her bread.

It must not be supposed that all these discoveries were the result of

one enterprise. Tracy could only venture on a peep now and then when

nobody was nigh; and many a time he had his walk for nothing. Sometimes,

too, his sense of propriety revolted, and he forebore from a

consciousness that it was not a delicate proceeding thus to spy into the

interior of this poor family at moments when they thought no human eye

was upon them: but his impulse was too powerful to be always thus

resisted, and fortifying himself with the consideration that his purpose

was not evil, he generally rewarded one instance of self-denial by two

or three of self-indulgence. And yet the scene that met his view was so

little varied, that it might have been supposed to afford but a poor

compensation for so much perseverance. The actors and their occupation

continued always the same; and the only novelty offered was, that Tracy

sometimes caught a glimpse of the man's features, which, though they

betrayed evidence of sickness and suffering, bore a strong resemblance

to those of the girl.

All this, however, to make the most of it, was but scanty fare for a

lover; nor was Tracy at all disposed to content himself with such cold

comfort. He tried what walking through the street by day would do, but

the door was always closed, and the tall green curtain presented an

effectual obstacle to those casual glances on which alone he could

venture by sunlight. Once only he had the good fortune again to meet

this "bright particular star" out of doors, and that was one morning

about eight o'clock, when he had been again sent on an early embassy to

the laundress. She appeared to have been out executing her small

marketings, for she was hastening home with a basket on her arm. Tracy

had formed a hundred different plans for addressing her--one, in short,

suited to every possible contingency--whenever the fortunate opportunity

should present itself; but, as is usual in similar cases, now that it

did come, she flashed upon him so suddenly, that in his surprise and

agitation he missed the occasion altogether. The fact was that she

stepped out of a shop just as he was passing it; and her attention being

directed to some small change which she held in her hand, and which she

appeared to be anxiously counting, she never even saw him, and had

reentered her own door before he could make up his mind what to do. He

learned, however, by this circumstance, that the best hope of success

lay in his going to Thomas Street at eight o'clock; but alas! this was

the very hour that his services could not be dispensed with at home; and

although he made several desperate efforts, he did not succeed in

hitting the lucky moment again.

Of course he did not neglect inquiry; but the result of his

perquisitions afforded little encouragement to his hopes of obtaining

the young girl's acquaintance. All that was known of the family was,

that they had lately taken the house, that their name was Lane, that

they lived quite alone, and were supposed to be very poor. Where they

came from, and what their condition in life might be, nobody knew or

seemed desirous to know, since they lived so quietly, that they had

hitherto awakened no curiosity in the neighborhood. The Scotsman at the

provision shop out of which she had been seen to come, pronounced her a

_wise-like girl_; and the apothecary's lad said that she was uncommon

_comely and genteel-like_, adding that her father was in very bad

health. This was the whole amount of information he could obtain, but to

the correctness of it, as regarded the bad health and the poverty, his

own eyes bore witness.

Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Tracy's first meeting with the

girl, when one evening he thought he perceived symptoms of more than

ordinary trouble in this humble menage. Just as he placed his eye to the

window, he saw the daughter entering the room with an old blanket, which

she wrapped round her father, whilst she threw her arms about his neck,

and tenderly caressed him; at the same time he remarked that there was

no fire in the grate, and that she frequently applied her apron to her

eyes. As these symptoms denoted an unusual extremity of distress, Tracy

felt the strongest desire to administer some relief to the sufferers;

but by what stratagem to accomplish his purpose it was not easy to

discover. He thought of making the apothecary or the grocer his agent,

requesting them not to name who had employed them; but he shrank from

the attention and curiosity such a proceeding would awaken, and the evil

interpretations that might be put upon it. Then he thought of the ribald

jests and jeers to which he might subject the object of his admiration,

and he resolved to employ no intervention, but to find some means or

other of conveying his bounty himself; and having with this view

inclosed a sovereign in half a sheet of paper, he set out upon his

nightly expedition.

He was rather later than usual, and the neighboring church clock struck

nine just as he turned into Thomas Street; he was almost afraid that the

light would be extinguished, and the father and daughter retired to

their chambers, as had been the case on some previous evenings; but it

was not so: the faint gleam showed that they were still there, and

after waiting some minutes for a clear coast, Tracy approached the

window--but the scene within was strangely changed.

The father was alone--at least except himself there was no living being

in the room--but there lay a corpse on the floor; at the table stood the

man with a large black notebook in his hand, out of which he was taking

what appeared to the spectator, so far as he could discern, to be bank

notes. To see this was the work of an instant; to conclude that a crime

had been committed was as sudden! and under the impulse of fear and

horror that seized him, Tracy turned to fly, but in his haste and

confusion, less cautious than usual, he struck the window with his

elbow. The sound must have been heard within; and he could not resist

the temptation of flinging an instantaneous glance into the room to

observe what effect it had produced. It was exactly such as might have

been expected; like one interrupted in a crime, the man stood

transfixed, his pale face glaring at the window, and his hands, from

which the notes had dropped suspended in the attitude in which they had

been surprised; with an involuntary exclamation of grief and terror,

Tracy turned again and fled. But he had scarcely gone two hundred yards

when he met the girl walking calmly along the street with her basket on

her arm. She did not observe him, but he recognized her; and urged by

love and curiosity, he could not forbear turning back, and following her

to the door. On reaching it, she, as usual, put her key into the lock;

but it did not open as usual; it was evidently fastened on the inside.

She lifted the knocker, and let it fall once, just loud enough to be

heard within; there was a little delay, and then the door was opened--no

more, however, than was sufficient to allow her to pass in--and

immediately closed. Tracy felt an eager desire to pursue this strange

drama further, and was standing still, hesitating whether to venture a

glance into the room, when the door was again opened, and the girl

rushed out, leaving it unclosed, and ran across the street into the

apothecary's shop.

"She is fetching a doctor to the murdered man," thought Tracy. And so it

appeared, for a minute had scarcely elapsed, when she returned,

accompanied by the apothecary and his assistant; they all three entered

the house; and upon the impulse of the moment, without pausing to

reflect on the impropriety of the intrusion, the young soldier entered

with them.

The girl, who walked first with a hasty step, preceded them into that

room on the right of the door which, but a few minutes before, Tracy had

been surveying through the window. The sensations with which he now

entered it formed a singular contrast to his anticipations, and

furnished a striking instance of what we have all occasion to remark as

we pass through life--namely, that the thing we have most earnestly

desired, frequently when it does come, arrives in a guise so different

to our hopes, and so distasteful to the sentiments or affections which

have given birth to the wish, that what we looked forward to as the

summit of bliss, proves, when we reach it, no more than a barren peak

strewn with dust and ashes. Fortunate, indeed, may we esteem ourselves

if we find nothing worse to greet us. How often had Tracy fancied that

if he could only obtain entrance into that room he should be happy! As

long as he was excluded from it, it was _his_ summit, for he could see

no further, and looked no further, sought no further: it seemed to him

that, once there, all that he desired must inevitably follow. Now he

_was_ there, but under what different circumstances to those he had

counted on! with what different feelings to those his imagination had

painted!

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Adams the apothecary, as he approached

the body, which still lay on the floor.

"I hope it's only a fit!" exclaimed the girl, taking the candle off the

table, and holding it in such a manner as to enable the apothecary to

examine the features.

"He's dead, I fancy," said the latter, applying his fingers to the

wrist. "Unloose his neckcloth, Robert, and raise the head."

This was said to the assistant, who, having done as he was told, and no

sign of life appearing, Mr. Adams felt for his lancet, and prepared to

bleed the patient. The lancet, however, had been left in the pocket of

another coat, and Robert being sent over to fetch it, Tracy stepped

forward and took his place at the head of the corpse; the consequence of

which was, that, when the boy returned, Mr. Adams bade him go back and

mind the shop, as they could do very well without him; and thus Tracy's

intrusion was, as it were, legitimized, and all awkwardness removed from

it. Not, however, that he had been sensible of any: he was too much

absorbed with the interest of the scene to be disturbed by such minor

considerations. Neither did anybody else appear discomposed or surprised

at his presence: the apothecary did not know but he had a right to be

there; the boy, who remembered the inquiries Tracy had made with regard

to the girl, concluded they had since formed an acquaintance; the girl

herself was apparently too much absorbed in the distressing event that

had occurred to have any thoughts to spare on minor interests; and as

for the man, he appeared to be scarcely conscious of what was going on

around him. Pale as death, and with all the symptoms of extreme sickness

and debility, he sat bending somewhat forward in an old arm-chair, with

his eyes fixed on the spot where the body lay; but there was "no

speculation" in those eyes, and it was evident that what he seemed to be

looking at he did not see. To every thoughtful mind the corporeal

investiture from which an immortal spirit has lately fled must present a

strange and painful interest; but Tracy felt now a more absorbing

interest in the mystery of the living than the dead; and as strange

questionings arose in his mind with regard to the pale occupant of the

old arm-chair as concerning the corpse that was stretched upon the

ground. Who was this stranger, and how came he there lying dead on the

floor of that poor house? And where was the pocket-book and the notes?

Not on the table, not in the room, so far as he could discern. They must

have been placed out of sight; and the question occurred to him, was

_she_ a party to the concealment? But both his heart and his judgment

answered _no_. Not only her pure and innocent countenance, but her whole

demeanor acquitted her of crime. It was evident that her attention was

entirely engrossed by the surgeon's efforts to recall life to the

inanimate body; there was no _arriere pensee_, no painful consciousness

plucking at her sleeve; her mind was anxious, but not more so than the

ostensible cause justified, and there was no expression of mystery or

fear about her. How different to the father, who seemed terror-struck!

No anxiety for the recovery of the stranger, no grief for his death,

appeared in him; and it occurred to Tracy that he looked more like one

condemned and waiting for execution than the interested spectator of

another's misfortune.

No blood flowed, and the apothecary having pronounced the stranger dead,

proposed, with the aid of Tracy, to remove him to a bed; and as there

was none below, they had to carry him up stairs, the girl preceding them

with a light, and leading the way into a room where a small tent

bedstead without curtains, two straw-bottomed chairs, with a rickety

table, and cracked looking-glass, formed nearly all the furniture; but

some articles of female attire lying about, betrayed to whom the

apartment belonged, and lent it an interest for Tracy.

Whilst making these arrangements for the dead but few words were spoken.

The girl looked pale and serious, but said little; the young man would

have liked to ask a hundred questions, but did not feel himself entitled

to ask one; and the apothecary, who seemed a quiet, taciturn person,

only observed that the stranger appeared to have died of disease of the

heart, and inquired whether he was a relation of the family.

"No," replied the girl; "he's no relation of ours--his name is

Aldridge."

"Not Ephraim Aldridge?" said the apothecary.

"Yes; Mr. Ephraim Aldridge," returned she: "my father was one of his

clerks formerly."

"You had better send to his house immediately," said Mr. Adams. "I

forget whether he has any family?"

"None but his nephew, Mr. Jonas," returned the girl. "I'll go there

directly, and tell him."

"Your father seems in bad health?" observed Mr. Adams, as he quitted the

room, and proceeded to descend the stairs.

"Yes; he has been ill a long time," she replied, with a sad countenance;

"and nobody seems to know what's the matter with him."

"Have you had any advice for him," inquired the apothecary.

"Oh, yes, a great deal, when first he was ill; but nobody did him any

good."

By this time they had reached the bottom of the stairs; and Mr. Adams,

who now led the van, instead of going out of the street door, turned

into the parlor again.

"Well, sir," said he, addressing Lane, "this poor gentleman is dead. I

should have called in somebody else had I earlier known who he was; but

it would have been useless, life must have been extinct half an hour

before I was summoned. Why did you not send for me sooner?"

"I was out," replied the girl, answering the question that had been

addressed to her father. "Mr. Aldridge had sent me away for something,

and when I returned I found him on the floor, and my father almost

fainting. It was a dreadful shock for him, being so ill."

"How did it happen?" inquired Mr. Adams, again addressing Lane.

A convulsion passed over the sick man's face, and his lip quivered as he

answered in a low sepulchral tone. "He was sitting on that chair,

talking about--about his nephews, when he suddenly stopped speaking, and

fell forward. I started up, and placed my hands against his breast to

save him, and then he fell backward upon the floor."

"Heart, no doubt. Probably a disease of long standing," said Mr. Adams.

"But it has given you a shock: you had better take something, and go to

bed."

"What should he take?" inquired the daughter.

"I'll send over a draught," replied the apothecary, moving toward the

door; "and you won't neglect to give notice of what has happened--it

must be done to-night."

"It is late for you to go out," observed Tracy, speaking almost for the

first time since he entered the house. "Couldn't I carry the message for

you?"

"Yes: if you will, I shall be much obliged," said she; "for I do not

like to leave my father again to-night. The house is No. 4, West

Street."

Death is a great leveler, and strong emotions banish formalities. The

offer was as frankly accepted as made; and his inquiry whether he could

be further useful being answered by "No, thank you--not to-night," the

young man took his leave and proceeded on his mission to West Street in

a state of mind difficult to describe--pleased and alarmed, happy and

distressed. He had not only accomplished his object by making the

acquaintance of Mary Lane, but the near view he had had of her, both as

regarded her person and behavior, confirmed his admiration and

gratified his affection; but, as he might have told the boy who

interrupted him, he had paid dear for peeping. He had seen what he would

have given the world not to have seen; and whilst he eagerly desired to

prosecute his suit to this young woman, and make her his wife, he shrank

with horror from the idea of having a thief and assassin for his

father-in-law.

Engrossed with these reflections he reached West Street before he was

aware of being half-way there, and rang the bell of No. 4. It was now

past eleven o'clock, but he had scarcely touched the wire, before he

heard a foot in the passage, and the door opened. The person who

presented himself had no light, neither was there any in the hall, and

Tracy could not distinguish to whom he spoke when he said, "is this the

house of Mr. Ephraim Aldridge?"

"It is: what do you want?" answered a man's voice, at the same time that

he drew back, and made a movement toward closing the door.

"I have been requested to call here to say that Mr. Aldridge is"--And

here the recollection that the intelligence he bore would probably be

deeply afflicting to the nephew he had heard mentioned as the deceased

man's only relation, and to whom he was now possibly speaking, arrested

the words in his throat, and after a slight hesitation he added--"is

taken ill."

"Ill!" said the person who held the door in his hand, which he now

opened wider. "Where? What's the matter with him? Is he very ill? Is it

any thing serious?"

The tone in which these questions were put relieved Tracy from any

apprehension of inflicting pain, and he rejoined at once, "I'm afraid he

is dead."

"Dead!" reiterated the other, throwing the door wide. "Step in if you

please. Dead! how should that be? He was very well this afternoon. Where

is he?" And so saying, he closed the street door, and led the young

soldier into a small parlor, where a lamp with a shade over it, and

several old ledgers, were lying on the table.

"He's at Mr. Lane's in Thomas Street," replied Tracy.

"But are you sure he's dead?" inquired the gentleman, who was indeed no

other than Mr. Jonas Aldridge himself. "How did he die? Who says he's

dead?"

"I don't know how he died. The apothecary seemed to think it was disease

of the heart," replied Tracy; "but he is certainly dead."

At this crisis of the conversation a new thought seemed to strike the

mind of Jonas, who, exhibiting no symptoms of affliction, had hitherto

appeared only curious and surprised. "My uncle Ephraim dead!" said he.

"No, no, I can't believe it. It is impossible--it cannot be! My dear

uncle! My only friend! Dead! Impossible!--you must be mistaken."

"You had better go and see yourself," replied Tracy, who did not feel at

all disposed to sympathize with this sudden effusion of sentiment. "I

happened to be by, by mere chance, and know nothing more than I heard

the apothecary say." And with these words he turned toward the door.

"You are an officer's servant, I see?" rejoined Jonas.

"I live with Captain D'Arcy of the 32d," answered Tracy; and wishing Mr.

Jonas a good-evening, he walked away with a very unfavorable impression

of that gentleman's character.

The door was no sooner closed on Tracy than Mr. Jonas Aldridge returned

into the parlor, and lighted a candle which stood on a side-table, by

the aid of which he ascended to the second floor, and entered a

back-room wherein stood a heavy four-post bed, the curtains of which

were closely drawn together. The apartment, which also contained an

old-fashioned mahogany set of drawers, and a large arm-chair, was well

carpeted, and wore an aspect of considerable comfort. The shutters were

closed, and a moreen curtain was let down to keep out the draught from

the window.

Mr. Jonas had mounted the stairs three at a time; but no sooner did he

enter the room, and his eye fall upon the bed, then he suddenly paused,

and stepping on the points of his toes toward it, he gently drew back

one of the side curtains, and looked in. It was turned down, and ready

for the expected master, but it was tenantless: he who should have lain

there lay elsewhere that night. Mr. Jonas folded in his lips, and nodded

his head with an expression that seemed to say _all's right_. And then

having drawn the bolt across the door, he took two keys out of his

waistcoat pocket; with one he opened a cupboard in the wainscot, and

with the other a large tin-box which stood therein, into which he thrust

his hand, and brought out a packet of papers, which not proving to be

the thing he sought, he made another dive; but this second attempt

turned out equally unsuccessful with the first; whereupon he fetched the

candle from the table, and held it over the box, in hopes of espying

what he wished. But his countenance clouded, and an oath escaped him, on

discovering it was not there.

"He has taken it with him!" said he. And having replaced the papers he

had disturbed, and closed the box, he hastily descended the stairs. In

the hall hung his greatcoat and hat. These he put on, tying a comforter

round his throat to defend him from the chill night-air; and then

leaving the candle burning in the passage, he put the key of the

house-door in his pocket, and went out.

Dead men wait patiently; but the haste with which Mr. Jonas Aldrich

strode over the ground seemed rather like one in chase of a fugitive;

and yet, fast as he went, the time seemed long to him till he reached

Thomas Street.

"Is my uncle here!" said he to Mary, who immediately answered to his

knock.

"Yes, sir," replied she.

"And what's the matter? I hope it is nothing serious?" added he.

"He's dead, sir, the doctor says," returned she.

"Then you had a doctor?"

"Oh yes, sir; I fetched Mr. Adams over the way immediately; but he said

he was dead the moment he saw him. Will you please to walk up stairs,

and see him yourself?"

"Impossible! It cannot be that my uncle is dead!" exclaimed Mr. Jonas,

who yet suspected some _ruse_. "You should have had the best advice--you

should have called in Dr. Sykes. Let him be sent for immediately!" he

added, speaking at the top of his voice, as he entered the little room

above: "no means must be neglected to recover him. Depend on it, it is

only a fit."

But the first glance satisfied him that all these ingenious precautions

were quite unnecessary. There lay Mr. Ephraim Aldridge dead

unmistakably; and while Mary was inquiring where the celebrated Dr.

Sykes lived, in order that she might immediately go in search of him,

Mr. Jonas was thinking on what pretense he might get her out of the room

without sending for anybody at all.

Designing people often give themselves an enormous deal of useless

trouble; and after searching his brain in vain for an expedient to get

rid of the girl, Mr. Jonas suddenly recollected that the simplest was

the best. There was no necessity, in short, for saying anything more

than that he wished to be alone; and this he did say, at the same time

drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, and applying it to his eyes, a

little pantomime that was intended to aid the gentle Mary in putting a

kind construction on the wish. She accordingly quitted the room, and

descended to the parlor; whereupon Mr. Jonas, finding himself alone,

lost no time in addressing himself to his purpose, which was to search

the pockets of the deceased, wherein he found a purse containing gold

and silver, various keys, and several other articles, but not the

article he sought; and as he gradually convinced himself that his search

was vain, his brow became overcast, angry ejaculations escaped his lips,

and after taking a cursory survey of the room, he snatched up the

candle, and hastily descended the stairs.

"When did my uncle come here? What did he come about?" he inquired

abruptly as he entered the parlor where Mary, weary and sad, was resting

her head upon the table.

"He came this evening, sir; but I don't know what he came about. He said

he wanted to have some conversation with my father, and I went into the

kitchen to leave them alone."

"Then you were not in the room when the accident happened?"

"What accident, sir?"

"I mean, when he died."

"No, sir; I had gone out to buy something for supper."

"What made you go out so late for that purpose?"

"My father called me in, sir, and Mr. Aldridge gave me some money."

"Then nobody was present but your father?"

"No, sir."

"And where is he now?"

"My father is very ill, sir; and it gave him such a shock, that he was

obliged to go to bed."

"Had my uncle nothing with him but what I have found in his pockets?"

"Nothing that I know of, sir."

"No papers?"

"No, sir."

"Go and ask your father if he saw any papers."

"I'm sure he didn't, sir, or else they would be here."

"Well, I'll thank you to go and ask him, however."

Whereupon Mary quitted the room; and stepping up stairs, she opened, and

then presently shut again, the door of her own bedroom. "It is no use

disturbing my poor father," said she to herself; "I'm sure he knows

nothing about any papers; and if I wake him, he will not get to sleep

again all night. If he saw them, he'll say so in the morning."

"My father knows nothing of the papers, sir," said she, reentering the

room; "and if they're not in the pocket, I'm sure Mr. Aldridge never

brought them here."

"Perhaps he did not, after all," thought Jonas; "he has maybe removed it

out of the tin-box, and put it into the bureau." A suggestion which made

him desire to get home again as fast as he had left it. So, promising to

send the undertakers in the morning to remove the body, Mr. Jonas took

his leave, and hastened back to West Street, where he immediately set

about ransacking every drawer, cupboard, and press, some of which he

could only open with the keys he had just extracted from the dead man's

pocket. But the morning's dawn found him unsuccessful: it appeared

almost certain that the important paper was not in the house; and weary,

haggard, and angry, he stretched himself on his bed till the hour

admitted of further proceedings. And we will avail ourselves of this

interval to explain more particularly the relative position of the

parties concerned in our story.

Ephraim Aldridge, a younger member of a large and poor family, had been

early in life apprenticed to a hosier; and being one of the most steady,

cautious, saving boys that ever found his bread amongst gloves and

stockings, had early grown into great favor with his master, who, as

soon as he was out of his apprenticeship, elevated him to the post of

book-keeper; and in this situation, as he had a liberal salary, and was

too prudent to marry, he contrived to save such a sum of money as,

together with his good character, enabled him to obtain the reversion of

the business when his master retired from it. The prudence which had

raised him adhered to him still; his business flourished, and he grew

rich; but the more money he got, the fonder he became of it; and the

more he had, the less he spent; while the cautious steadiness of the boy

shrank into a dry reserve as he grew older, till he became an austere,

silent, inaccessible man, for whom the world in general entertained a

certain degree of respect, but whom nobody liked, with the exception

perhaps of one person, and that was Maurice Lane, who had formerly been

his fellow-apprentice, and was now his shopman. And yet a more marked

contrast of character could scarcely exist than between these two young

men; but, somehow or other, everybody liked Lane; even the frigid heart

of Ephraim could not defend itself from the charm of the boy's beautiful

countenance and open disposition; and when he placed his former comrade

in a situation of responsibility, it was not because he thought him the

best or the steadiest servant he could possibly find, but because he

wished to have one person about him that he liked, and that liked him.

But no sooner did Lane find himself with a salary which would have

maintained himself comfortably, than he fell in love with a beautiful

girl whom he saw trimming caps and bonnets in an opposite shop-window,

and straightway married her. Then came a family, and with it a train of

calamities which kept them always steeped in distress, till the wife,

worn out with hard work and anxiety, died; the children that survived

were then dispersed about the world to earn their bread, and Lane found

himself alone with his youngest daughter Mary. Had he retained his

health, he might now have done better; but a severe rheumatic fever,

after reducing him to the brink of the grave, had left him in such

infirm health, that he was no longer able to maintain his situation; so

he resigned it, and retired to an obscure lodging, with a few pounds in

his pocket, and the affection and industry of his daughter for his only

dependence.

During all this succession of calamities, Mr. Aldrich had looked on with

a severe eye. Had it been anybody but Lane, he would have dismissed him

as soon as he married; as it was, he allowed him to retain his place,

and to take the consequences of his folly. He had carved his own

destiny, and must accept it; it was not for want of knowing better, for

Ephraim had warned him over and over again of the folly of poor men

falling in love and marrying. Entertaining this view of the case, he

justified his natural parsimony with the reflection, that by encouraging

such imprudence he should be doing an injury to other young men. He made

use of Lane as a beacon, and left him in his distress, lest assistance

should destroy his usefulness. The old house in Thomas Street, however,

which belonged to him, happening to fall vacant, he so far relented as

to send word to his old clerk that he might inhabit it if he pleased.

Some few years, however, before these latter circumstances, Mr.

Aldridge, who had determined against matrimony, had nevertheless been

seized with that desire so prevalent in the old especially, to have an

heir of his own name and blood for his property. He had but two

relations that he remembered, a brother and a sister. The latter, when

Ephraim was a boy, had married a handsome sergeant of a marching

regiment, and gone away with it; and her family never saw her afterward,

though for some years she had kept up an occasional correspondence with

her parents, by which they learned that she was happy and prosperous;

that her husband had been promoted to an ensigncy for his good conduct;

that she had one child; and finally, that they were about to embark for

the West Indies.

His brother, with whom he had always maintained some degree of

intercourse, had early settled in London as a harness-maker, and was

tolerably well off; on which account Ephraim respected him, and now that

he wanted an heir, it was in this quarter he resolved to look for one.

So he went to London, inspected the family, and finally selected young

Jonas, who everybody said was a facsimile of himself in person and

character. He was certainly a cautious, careful, steady boy who was

guilty of no indiscretions, and looked very sharp after his halfpence.

Ephraim, who thought he had hit upon the exact desideratum, carried him

to the country, put him to school, and became exceedingly proud and fond

of him. His character, indeed, as regarded his relations with the boy,

seemed to have undergone a complete change, and the tenderness he had

all through life denied to everybody else, he now in his decline

lavished to an injudicious excess on this child of his adoption. When he

retired from business he took Jonas home; and as the lad had some talent

for portrait-painting, he believed him destined to be a great artist,

and forbore to give him a profession. Thus they lived together

harmoniously enough for some time, till the factitious virtues of the

boy ripened into the real vices of the man; and Ephraim discovered that

the cautious, economical, discreet child was, at five-and-twenty, an

odious specimen of avarice, selfishness, and cunning; and what made the

matter worse was, that the uncle and nephew somehow appeared to have

insensibly changed places--the latter being the governor, and the former

the governed; and that while Mr. Jonas professed the warmest affection

for the old man, and exhibited the tenderest anxiety for his health, he

contrived to make him a prisoner in his own house, and destroy all the

comfort of his existence--and everybody knows how hard it is to break

free from a domestic despotism of this description, which, like the

arms of a gigantic cuttle-fish, has wound itself inextricably around its

victim.

To leave Jonas, or to make Jonas leave him, was equally difficult; but

at length the declining state of his health, together with his

ever-augmenting hatred of his chosen heir, rendering the case more

urgent, he determined to make a vigorous effort for freedom; and now it

first occurred to him that his old friend Maurice Lane might help him to

attain his object. In the mean time, while waiting for an opportunity to

get possession of the will by which he had appointed Jonas heir to all

his fortune, he privately drew up another, in favor of his sister's

eldest son or his descendants, on condition of their taking the name of

Aldridge; and this he secured in a tin-box, of which he kept the key

always about him, the box itself being deposited in a cupboard in his

own chamber. In spite of all these precautions, however, Jonas

penetrated the secret, and by means of false keys, obtained a sight of

the document which was to cut him out of all he had been accustomed to

consider his own; but it was at least some comfort to observe that the

will was neither signed nor witnessed, and therefore at present

perfectly invalid. This being the case, he thought it advisable to

replace the papers, and content himself with narrowly watching his

uncle's future proceedings, since stronger measures at so critical a

juncture might possibly provoke the old man to more decisive ones of his

own.

In a remote quarter of the town resided two young men, commonly called

Jock and Joe Wantage, who had formerly served Mr. Aldridge as errand

boys, but who had since managed to set up in a humble way of business

for themselves; and having at length contrived one evening to elude the

vigilance of his nephew, he stepped into a coach, and without entering

into any explanation of his reasons, he, in the presence of those

persons, produced and signed his will, which they witnessed, desiring

them at the same time never to mention the circumstance to anybody,

unless called upon to do so. After making them a little present of

money, for adversity had now somewhat softened his heart, he proceeded

to the house of his old clerk.

It was by this time getting late, and the father and daughter were

sitting in their almost fireless room, anxious and sad, for, as Tracy

had conjectured, they were reduced to the last extremity of distress,

when they were startled at a double knock at the door. It was long since

those old walls had reverberated to such a sound.

"Who can that be?" exclaimed Lane, looking suddenly up from his book,

which was a tattered volume of Shakspeare, the only one he possessed. "I

heard a coach stop."

"It can be nobody here," returned Mary: "it must be a mistake."

However, she rose and opened the door, at which by this time stood Mr.

Aldridge, whose features it was too dark to distinguish.

"Bring a light here!" said he. "No; stay; I'll send you out the money,"

he added to the coachman, and with that he stepped forward to the little

parlor. But the scene that there presented itself struck heavily upon

his heart, and perhaps upon his conscience, for instead of advancing, he

stood still in the doorway. Here was poverty indeed! He and Lane had

begun life together, but what a contrast in their ultimate fortunes! The

one with much more money than he knew what to do with; the other without

a shilling to purchase a bushel of coals to warm his shivering limbs;

and yet the rich man was probably the more miserable of the two!

"Mr. Aldridge!" exclaimed Lane, rising from his seat in amazement.

"Take this, and pay the man his fare," said the visitor to Mary, handing

her some silver. "And have you no coals?"

"No, sir."

"Then buy some directly, and make up the fire. Get plenty; here's the

money to pay for them;" and as the coals were to be had next door, there

was soon a cheerful fire in the grate. Lane drew his chair close to the

fender, and spread his thin fingers to the welcome blaze.

"I did not know you were so badly off as this," Mr. Aldridge remarked.

"We have nothing but what Mary earns, and needlework is poorly paid,"

returned Lane; "and often not to be had. I hope Mr. Jonas is well?"

Mr. Aldridge did not answer, but sat silently looking into the fire. The

corners of his mouth were drawn down, his lip quivered, and the tears

rose to his eyes as he thought of all he had lavished on that ungrateful

nephew, that serpent he had nourished in his bosom, while the only

friend he ever had was starving.

"Mary's an excellent girl," pursued the father, "and has more sense than

years. She nursed me through all my illness night and day; and though

she has had a hard life of it, she's as patient as a lamb, poor thing! I

sometimes wish I was dead, and out of her way, for then she might do

better for herself."

Mr. Aldridge retained his attitude and his silence, but a tear or two

escaped from their channels, and flowed down the wan and hollow cheek:

he did not dare to speak, lest the convulsion within his breast should

burst forth into sobs and outward demonstrations, from which his close

and reserved nature shrunk. Lane made two or three attempts at

conversation, and then, finding them ineffectual, sank into silence

himself.

If the poor clerk could have penetrated the thoughts of his visitor

during that interval, he would have read there pity for the sufferings

of his old friend, remorse for having treated him with harshness under

the name of justice, and the best resolutions to make him amends for the

future.

"Justice!" thought he; "how can man, who sees only the surface of

things, ever hope to be just?"

"You have no food either, I suppose?" said he abruptly breaking the

silence.

"There's part of a loaf in the house, I believe," returned Lane.

"Call the girl, and bid her fetch some food! Plenty and the best! Do you

hear, Mary?" he added as she appeared at the door. "Here's money."

"I have enough left from what you gave me for the coals," said Mary,

withholding her hand.

"Take it!--take it!" said Mr. Aldridge, who was now for the first time

in his life beginning to comprehend that the real value of money depends

wholly on the way in which it is used, and that that which purchases

happiness neither for its possessor nor anybody else is not wealth, but

dross. "Take it, and buy whatever you want. When did _he_ ever withhold

his hand when I offered him money?" thought he as his mind recurred to

his adopted nephew.

Mary accordingly departed, and having supplied the table with

provisions, was sent out again to purchase a warm shawl and some other

articles for herself, which it was too evident she was much in need of.

It was not till after she had departed that Mr. Aldridge entered into

the subject that sat heavy on his soul. He now first communicated to

Lane that which the reserve of his nature had hitherto induced him to

conceal from everybody--namely, the disappointment he had experienced in

the character of his adopted son, the ill-treatment he had received from

him, and the mixture of fear, hatred, and disgust with which the conduct

of Jonas had inspired him.

"He has contrived, under the pretense of taking care of my health, to

make me a prisoner in my own house. I haven't a friend nor an

acquaintance; he has bought over the servants to his interest, and his

confidential associate is Holland, _my_ solicitor, who drew up the will

I made in that rascal's favor, and has it in his possession. Jonas is to

marry his daughter too; but I have something in my pocket that will

break off that match. I should never sleep in my grave if he inherited

my money! The fact is," continued he, after a pause, "I never mean to go

back to the fellow. I won't trust myself in his keeping; for I see he

has scarcely patience to wait till nature removes me out of the way.

I'll tell you what, Lane," continued he, his hollow cheek flushing with

excited feelings, "I'll come and live with you, and Mary shall be my

nurse."

Lane, who sat listening to all this in a state of bewilderment,

half-doubting whether his old master had not been seized with a sudden

fit of insanity, here cast a glance round the miserable whitewashed

walls begrimed with smoke and dirt. "Not here--not here!" added Mr.

Aldridge, interpreting the look aright; we'll take a house in the

country, and Mary shall manage everything for us, whilst we sit

together, with our knees to the fire, and talk over old times. Thank

God, my money is my own still! and with country air and good nursing I

should not wonder if I recover my health; for I can safely say I have

never known what it is to enjoy a happy hour these five years--never

since I found out that fellow's real character--and that is enough to

kill any man! Look here," said he, drawing from his pocket a large black

leathern note-case. "Here is a good round sum in Bank of England notes,

which I have kept concealed until I could get clear of Mr. Jonas; for

though he cannot touch the principal, thank God! he got a power of

attorney from me some time ago, entitling him to receive my dividends;

but now I'm out of his clutches, I'll put a drag on his wheel, he may

rely on it. With this we can remove into the country and take lodgings,

while we look out for a place to suit us permanently. We'll have a cow

in a paddock close to the house; the new milk and the smell of the hay

will make us young again. Many an hour, as I have lain in my wearisome

bed lately, I have thought of you and our Sunday afternoons in the

country when we were boys. In the eagerness of money-getting, these

things had passed away from my memory; but they return to me now as the

only pleasant recollection of my life."

"And yet I never thought you enjoyed them much at the time," observed

Lane, who was gradually getting more at ease with the rich man that had

once been his equal, but between whom and himself all equality had

ceased as the one grew richer and the other poorer.

"Perhaps I did not," returned Ephraim. "I was too eager to get on in the

world to take much pleasure in anything that did not help to fill my

pockets. Money--money, was all I thought of! and when I got it, what did

it bring me? Jonas--and a precious bargain he has turned out! But I'll

be even with him yet." Here there was a sob and a convulsion of the

breast, as the wounded heart swelled with its bitter sense of injury. "I

have not told you half yet," continued he; "but I'll be even with him,

little as he thinks it."

As a pause now ensued, Lane felt it was his turn to say something, and

he began with, "I am surprised at Mr. Jonas;" for so cleverly had the

nephew managed, that the alienation of the uncle was unsuspected by

everybody, and Lane could hardly bring himself to comment freely on this

once-cherished nephew. "I could not have believed, after all you've done

for him, that he would turn out ungrateful. Perhaps," continued he; but

here the words were arrested on his lips by a sudden movement on the

part of Mr. Aldridge, which caused Lane, who had been staring vacantly

into the fire, to turn his eyes toward his visitor, whom, to his

surprise, he saw falling gradually forward. He stretched out his hand to

arrest the fall; but his feeble arm only gave another direction to the

body, which sank on its face to the ground. Lane, who naturally thought

Mr. Aldridge had fainted from excess of emotion, fetched water, and

endeavored to raise him from the floor; but he slipped heavily from his

grasp; and the recollection that years ago, he had heard from the

apothecary who attended Ephraim that the latter had disease of the

heart, and would some day die suddenly, filled him with terror and

dismay. He saw that the prophecy was fulfilled; his own weak nerves and

enfeebled frame gave way under the shock, and dropping into the nearest

chair, he was for some moments almost as insensible as his friend.

When he revived, and was able to recall his scattered senses, the first

thing that met his eye was the open pocket-book and the notes that lay

on the table. But a moment before, how full of promise was that book to

him! Now, where were his hopes? Alas, like his fortunes, in the dust!

Never was a man less greedy of money than Lane; but he knew what it was

to want bread, to want clothes, to want fire. He felt sure Jonas would

never give him a sixpence to keep him from starving; and there was his

poor Mary, so overworked, fading her fair young cheeks with toil. That

money was to have made three persons comfortable: he to whom it belonged

was gone, and could never need it; and he had paid quite enough before

he departed to satisfy Lane, that could he lift up his voice from the

grave to say who would have the contents of that book, it would not be

Jonas. Where, then, could be the harm of helping himself to that which

had been partly intended for him? Where too, could be the danger?

Assuredly Jonas, the only person who had a right to inquire into Mr.

Aldridge's affairs, knew nothing of this sum; and then the pocket-book

might be burned, and so annihilate all trace. There blazed the fire so

invitingly. Besides, Jonas would be so rich, and could so well afford to

spare it. As these arguments hastily suggested themselves, Lane,

trembling with emotion, arose from his seat, seized the book, and

grasped a handful of the notes, when to his horror, at that moment he

heard a tap at the window. Shaking like a leaf, his wan cheeks whiter

than before, and his very breath suspended, he stood waiting for what

was to follow; but nothing ensued--all was silent again. It was probably

an accident: some one passing had touched the glass; but still an

undefined fear made him totter to the street door, and draw the bolt.

Then he returned into the room: there were the notes yet tempting him.

But this interruption had answered him. He longed for them as much as

before, but did not dare to satisfy his desire, lest he should hear that

warning tap again. Yet if left there till Mary returned, they were lost

to him forever; and he and she would be starving again, all the more

wretched for this transitory gleam of hope that had relieved for a

moment the darkness of their despair. But time pressed: every moment he

expected to hear her at the door; and as unwilling to relinquish the

prize as afraid to seize it, he took refuge in an expedient that avoided

either extreme--he closed the book, and flung it beneath the table, over

which there was spread an old green cloth, casting a sufficiently dark

shadow around to render the object invisible, unless to a person

stooping to search for it. Thus, if inquired for and sought, it would be

found, and the natural conclusion be drawn that it had fallen there; if

not, he would have time for deliberation, and circumstances should

decide him what to do.

There were but two beds in this poor house: in one slept Lane, on the

other was stretched the dead guest. Mary, therefore, on this eventful

night had none to go to. So she made up the fire, threw her new shawl

over her head, and arranged herself to pass the hours till morning in

the rickety old chair in which her father usually sat. The scenes in

which she had been assisting formed a sad episode in her sad life; and

although she knew too little of Mr. Aldridge to feel any particular

interest in him, she had gathered enough from her father, and from the

snatches of conversation she had heard, to be aware that this visit was

to have been the dawn of better fortunes, and that the old man's sudden

decease was probably a much heavier misfortune to themselves than to

him. A girl more tenderly nurtured and accustomed to prosperity would

have most likely given vent to her disappointment in tears; but tears

are an idle luxury, in which the poor rarely indulge: they have no time

for them. They must use their eyes for their work; and when night comes,

their weary bodies constrain the mind to rest. Mary had had a fatiguing

evening--it was late before she found herself alone; and tired and

exhausted, unhappy as she felt, it was not long ere she was in a sound

sleep.

It appeared to her that she must have slept several hours, when she

awoke with the consciousness that there was somebody stirring in the

room. She felt sure that a person had passed close to where she was

sitting; she heard the low breathing and the cautious foot, which

sounded as if the intruder was without shoes. The small grate not

holding much coal, the fire was already out, and the room perfectly

dark, so that Mary had only her ear to guide her: she could see nothing.

A strange feeling crept over her when she remembered their guest: but

no--he was forever motionless; there could be no doubt of that. It could

not surely be her father. His getting out of bed and coming down stairs

in the middle of the night was to the last degree improbable. What could

he come for? Besides, if he had done so, he would naturally have spoken

to her. Then came the sudden recollection that she had not fastened the

back-door, which opened upon a yard as accessible to their neighbors as

to themselves--neighbors not always of the best character either; and

the cold shiver of fear crept over her. Now she felt how fortunate it

was that the room _was_ dark. How fortunate, too, that she had not

spoken or stirred; for the intruder withdrew as silently as he came.

Mary strained her ears to listen which way he went; but the shoeless

feet gave no echo. It was some time before the poor girl's beating heart

was stilled; and then suddenly recollecting that this mysterious

visitor, whoever he was, might have gone to fetch a light and return,

she started up, and turned the key in the door. During that night Mary

had no more sleep. When the morning broke, she arose and looked around

to see if any traces of her midnight visitor remained, but there were

none. A sudden alarm now arose in her breast for her father's safety,

and she hastily ascended the stairs to his chamber; but he appeared to

be asleep, and she did not disturb him. Then she opened the door of her

own room, and peeped in--all was still there, and just as it had been

left on the preceding evening; and now, as is usual on such occasions,

when the terrors of the night had passed away, and the broad daylight

looked out upon the world, she began to doubt whether the whole affair

had not been a dream betwixt sleeping and waking, the result of the

agitating events of the preceding evening.

After lighting the fire, and filling the kettle, Mary next set about

arranging the room; and in so doing, she discovered a bit of folded

paper under the table, which, on examination, proved to be a five-pound

note. Of course this belonged to Mr. Aldridge, and must have fallen

there by accident; so she put it aside for Jonas, and then ascended to

her father's room again. He was now awake, but said he felt very unwell,

and begged for some tea, a luxury they now possessed, through the

liberality of their deceased guest.

"Did anything disturb you in the night, father?" inquired Mary.

"No," replied Lane, "I slept all night." He did not look as if he had,

though; and Mary, seeing he was irritable and nervous, and did not wish

to be questioned, made no allusion to what had disturbed herself.

"If Mr. Jonas Aldridge comes here, say I am too ill to see him," added

he, as she quitted the room.

About eleven o'clock the undertakers came to remove the body; and

presently afterward Tracy arrived.

"I came to say that I delivered your message last night to Mr. Jonas

Aldridge," said he, when she opened the door; "and he promised to come

here directly."

"He did come," returned Mary. "Will you please to walk in? I'm sorry my

father is not down stairs. He's very poorly to-day."

"I do not wonder at that," answered Tracy, as his thoughts recurred to

the black pocket-book.

"Mr. Jonas seemed very anxious about some papers he thought his uncle

had about him; but I have found nothing but this five-pound note, which

perhaps you would leave at Mr. Aldridge's for me?"

"I will, with pleasure," answered Tracy, remembering that this

commission would afford him an excuse for another visit; and he took his

leave a great deal more in love than ever.

"Humph!" said Mr. Jonas, taking the note that Tracy brought him; "and

she has found no papers?"

"No, sir, none. Miss Lane says that unless they were in his pocket, Mr.

Aldridge could not have had any papers with him."

"It's very extraordinary," said Mr. Jonas, answering his own

reflections.

"Will you give me a receipt for the note, sir?" asked Tracy. My name

is"----

"It's all right. I'm going there directly myself, and I'll say you

delivered it," answered Jonas, hastily interrupting him, and taking his

hat off a peg in the passage. "I'm in a hurry just now;" whereupon Tracy

departed without insisting farther.

While poor Ephraim slept peaceably in his coffin above, Mr. Jonas,

perplexed by all manner of doubts in regard to the missing will, sat

below in the parlor, in a fever of restless anxiety. Every heel that

resounded on the pavement made his heart sink till it had passed the

door, while a ring or a knock shook his whole frame to the center; and

though he longed to see Mr. Holland, his uncle's solicitor, whom he knew

to be quite in his interest, he had not courage either to go to him or

to send for him, for fear of hastening the catastrophe he dreaded.

Time crept on; the day of the funeral came and passed; the will was

read; and Mr. Jonas took possession as sole heir and executor, and no

interruption occurred. Smoothly and favorably, however, as the stream of

events appeared to flow, the long-expectant heir was not the less

miserable.

But when three months had elapsed he began to breathe more freely, and

to hope that the alarm had been a false one. The property was indeed his

own--he was a rich man, and now for the first time he felt in sufficient

spirits to look into his affairs and review his possessions. A

considerable share of these consisted in houses, which his uncle had

seized opportunities of purchasing on advantageous terms; and as the

value of some had increased, whilst that of others was diminishing for

want of repair, he employed a surveyor to examine and pronounce on their

condition.

"Among the rest," said he, "there is a small house in Thomas Street, No.

7. My uncle allowed an old clerk of his to inhabit it, rent free; but he

must turn out. I gave them notice three months ago; but they've not

taken it. Root them up, will you? and get the house cleaned down and

whitewashed for some other tenant."

Having put these matters in train, Mr. Jonas resolved, while his own

residence was set in order, to make a journey to London, and enjoy the

gratification of presenting himself to his family in the character of a

rich man; and so fascinating did he find the pleasures of wealth and

independence, that nearly four months had elapsed since his departure

before he summoned Mr. Reynolds to give an account of his proceedings.

"So," said he, after they had run through the most important items--"so

you have found a tenant for the house in Thomas Street? Had you much

trouble in getting rid of the Lanes?"

"They're in it still," answered Mr. Reynolds. "The man that has taken it

has married Lane's daughter."

"What is he?" inquired Jonas.

"An officer's servant--a soldier in the regiment that is quartered in

the citadel."

"Oh, I've seen the man--a good-looking young fellow. But how is he to

pay the rent?"

"He says he has saved money, and he has set her up in a shop. However, I

have taken care to secure the first quarter; there's the receipt for

it."

"That is all right," said Mr. Jonas, who was in a very complacent humor,

for fortune seemed quite on his side at present. "How," said he,

suddenly changing color as he glanced his eye over the slip of paper;

"how! Tracy Walkingham!"

"Yes; an odd name enough for a private soldier, isn't it?"

"Tracy Walkingham!" he repeated. "Why how came he to know the Lanes?

Where does he come from?"

"I know nothing of him, except that he is in the barracks. But I can

inquire, and find out his history and genealogy if you wish it," replied

Mr. Reynolds.

"Oh, no, no," said Jonas; "leave him alone. If I want to find out

anything about him, I'll do it myself. Indeed it is nothing connected

with himself, but the name struck me as being that of a person who owed

my uncle some money; however, it cannot be him of course. And to return

to matters of more consequence, I want to know what you've done with the

tenements in Water Lane?" And having thus adroitly turned the

conversation, the subject of the tenant with the odd name was referred

to no more; but although it is true, that "out of the fullness of the

heart the mouth speaketh," it is also frequently true, that that which

most occupies the mind is the farthest from the lips, and this was

eminently the case on the present occasion; for during the ensuing half

hour that Mr. Jonas appeared to be listening with composure to the

surveyor's reports and suggestions, the name of Tracy Walkingham was

burning itself into his brain in characters of fire.

"Tracy Walkingham!" exclaimed he, as soon as Mr. Reynolds was gone, and

he had turned the key in the lock to exclude interruptions; "here, and

married to Lane's daughter! There's something in this more than meets

the eye! The Lanes have got that will as sure as my name's Jonas

Aldridge, and have been waiting to produce it till they had him fast

noosed. But why do they withhold it now? Waiting till they hear of my

return, I suppose." And as this conviction gained strength, he paced the

room in a paroxysm of anguish. And there he was, so helpless, too! What

could he do but wait till the blow came? He would have liked to turn

them out of his house, but they had taken it for a year; and besides,

what good would that do but to give them a greater triumph, and perhaps

expedite the catastrophe? Sometimes he thought of consulting his friend

Holland; but his pride shrank from the avowal that his uncle had

disinherited him, and that the property he and everybody else had long

considered so securely his, now in all probability justly belonged to

another. Then he formed all sorts of impracticable schemes for getting

the paper into his possession, or Tracy out of the way. Never was there

a more miserable man; the sight of those two words, _Tracy Walkingham_,

had blasted his sight, and changed the hue of everything he looked upon.

Our readers will have little difficulty in guessing the reason: the

young soldier, Mary's handsome husband, was the heir named in the

missing will--the son of that sister of Ephraim who had married a

sergeant, and had subsequently gone to the West Indies.

Tracy Walkingham, the father, was not exactly in his right position as a

private in the 9th regiment, for he was the offspring of a very

respectable family; but some early extravagance and dissipation,

together with a passion for a military life, which was denied

gratification, had induced him to enlist. Good conduct and a tolerable

education soon procured him the favorable notice of his superiors, took

him out of the ranks, and finally procured him a commission. When both

he and his wife died in Jamaica, their only son was sent home to the

father's friends; but the boy met with but a cold reception; and after

some years passed, far from happily, he, as we have said, ran away from

school; and his early associations being all military, seized the first

opportunity of enlisting, as his father had done before him. But of the

history of his parents he knew nothing whatever, except that his father

had risen from the ranks; and he had as little suspicion of his

connection with Ephraim Aldridge as Mary had. Neither did the name of

Tracy Walkingham suggest any reminiscences to Lane, who had either

forgotten, or more probably had never heard it, Mr. Aldridge's sister

having married prior to the acquaintance of the two lads. But Jonas had

been enlightened by the will; and although the regiment now quartered at

P---- was not the one therein mentioned, the name was too remarkable not

to imply a probability, which his own terror naturally converted into a

certainty.

In the mean time, while the rich and conscious usurper was nightly lying

on a bed of thorns, and daily eating the broad of bitterness, the poor

and unconscious heir was in the enjoyment of a larger share of happiness

than usually falls to the lot of mortals. The more intimately he became

acquainted with Mary's character, the more reason he found to

congratulate himself on his choice; and even Lane he had learned to

love; while all the painful suspicions connected with Mr. Aldridge's

death and the pocket-book had been entirely dissipated by the evident

poverty of the family; since, after the expenditure of the little ready

money Mr. Aldridge had given them, they had relapsed into their previous

state of distress, having clearly no secret resources wherewith to avert

it. Mary's shop was now beginning to get custom too, and she was by slow

degrees augmenting her small stock, when the first interruption to their

felicity occurred. This was the impending removal of the regiment,

which, under present circumstances, was an almost inevitable sentence of

separation; for even could they have resolved to make the sacrifice, and

quit the home on which they had expended all their little funds, it was

impossible for Mary to abandon her father, ever feeble, and declining in

health. The money Tracy had saved toward purchasing his discharge was

not only all gone, but, though doing very well, they were not yet quite

clear of the debt incurred for their furniture. There was therefore no

alternative but to submit to the separation, hard as it was; and all the

harder, that they could not tell how long it might take to amass the

needful sum to purchase Tracy's liberty. Lane, too, was very much

affected, and very unwilling to part with his son-in-law.

"What," said he, "only twenty pounds?" And when he saw his daughter's

tears, he would exclaim, "Oh, Mary! and to think that twenty pounds

would do it!" And more than once he said, "Tracy should not go; he was

determined he should not leave them;" and bade Mary dry her tears, for

he would prevent it. But nevertheless the route came; and early one

morning the regiment marched through Thomas Street, the band playing the

tune of "The girl I left behind me;" while poor Mary, choking with sobs,

peeped through the half-open shutter, to which the young husband's eyes

were directed as long as the house was in sight. That was a sad day, and

very sad were many that followed. Neither was there any blessed Penny

Post then, to ease the sick hearts and deferred hopes of the poor; and

few and rare were the tidings that reached the loving wife--soon to

become a mother. The only pleasure Mary had now was in the amassing

money. How eager she was for it! How she counted over and over her daily

gains! How she economized! What self-denial she practiced! Oh for twenty

pounds to set her husband free, and bring him to her arms again! So

passed two years, circumstances always improving, but still this object

so near her heart was far from being attained, when there arrived a

letter from Tracy, informing her that the regiment was ordered abroad,

and that, as he could not procure a furlough, there was no possibility

of their meeting unless she could go to him. What was to be done? If she

went, all her little savings would be absorbed in the journey, and the

hope of purchasing her husband's discharge indefinitely postponed.

Besides, who was to take care of her father, and the lodger, and the

shop? The former would perhaps die from neglect, she should lose her

lodger, and the shop would go to destruction for want of the needful

attention. But could she forbear? Her husband might never return--they

might never meet again--then how she should reproach herself! Moreover,

Tracy had not seen the child: that was decisive. At all risks she must

go; and this being resolved, she determined to shut up her shop, and

engage a girl to attend to her father and her lodger. These arrangements

made, she started on her long journey with her baby in her arms.

At the period of which we are treating, a humble traveler was not only

subject to great inconveniences, but besides the actual sum disbursed,

he paid a heavy per-centage from delay on every mile of his journey.

Howbeit, "Time and the hour run through the roughest day," and poor Mary

reached her destination at last; and in the joy of meeting with her

husband, forgot all her difficulties and anxieties, till the necessity

for parting recalled her to the sad reality that awaited them. If she

stayed too long away from her shop, she feared her customers would

forsake her altogether; and then how was the next rent-day to be

provided for? So, with many a sigh and many a tear, the young couple

bade each other farewell, and Mary recommenced her tedious journey. If

tedious before, when such a bright star of hope lighted her on her way,

how much more so now! While poor Tracy felt so wretched and depressed,

that many a time vague thoughts of deserting glanced through his mind,

and he was only withheld from it by the certainty that if they shot

him--and deserters, when taken, were shot in those days--it would break

his poor little wife's heart. Soon after Mary's departure, however, it

happened that his master, Major D'Arcy, met with a severe accident while

hunting; and as Tracy was his favorite servant, and very much attached

to him, his time and thoughts were so much occupied with attendance on

the invalid, that he was necessarily in some degree diverted from his

own troubles.

In the mean time Mary arrived at home, where she found her affairs in no

worse condition than might be expected. Her father was in health much as

she had left him, and her lodger still in the house, though both weary

of her substitute; and the latter--that is, the lodger--threatening to

quit if the mistress did not make haste back. All was right now

again--except Mary's heart--and things resumed their former train; the

only event she expected being a letter to inform her of her husband's

departure, which he had promised to post on the day of his embarkation.

Three months elapsed, however, before the postman stopped at her door

with the dreaded letter. How her heart sank when she saw him enter the

shop!

"A letter for you, Mrs. Walkingham--one-and-two-pence, if you please."

Mary opened her till, and handed him the money.

"Poor thing!" thought the man, observing how her hand shook, and how

pale she turned; "expects bad news, I suppose!"

Mary dropped the letter into the money-drawer, for there was a customer

in the shop waiting to be served--and then came in another. When the

second was gone, she took it out and looked at it, turned it about, and

examined it, and kissed it, and then put it away again. She felt that

she dared not open it till night, when all her business was over, and

her shop closed, and she might pour out her tears without interruption.

She could scarcely tell whether she most longed or feared to open it;

and when at length the quiet hour came, and her father was in bed, and

her baby asleep in its cradle beside her, and she sat down to read it,

she looked at it, and pressed it to her bosom, and kissed it again and

again, before she broke the seal; and then when she had done so, the

paper shook in her hand, and her eyes were obscured with tears, and the

light seemed so dim that she could not at first decipher anything but

"My darling Mary!" It was easy to read that, for he always called her

_his darling Mary_--but what came next? "Joy! joy! dry your dear tears,

for I know how fast they are falling, and be happy! I am not going

abroad with the regiment, and I shall soon be a free man. Major D'Arcy

has met with a sad accident, and cannot go to a foreign station; and as

he wishes me not to leave him, he is going to purchase my discharge,"

&c. &c.

Many a night had Mary lain awake from grief, but this night she could

not sleep for joy. It was such a surprise, such an unlooked-for piece of

good fortune. It might indeed be some time before she could see her

husband, but he was free, and sooner or later they should be together.

Everybody who came to the shop the next day wondered what had come over

Mrs. Walkingham. She was not like the same woman.

It was about eight months after the arrival of the above welcome

intelligence, on a bright winter's morning, Mary as usual up betimes,

her shop all in order, her child washed and dressed, and herself as neat

and clean "as a new pin," as her neighbor, Mrs. Crump the laundress,

used to say of her--her heart as usual full of Tracy, and more than

commonly full of anxiety about him, for the usual period for his writing

was some time passed. She was beginning to be uneasy at his prolonged

silence, and to fear that he was ill.

"No letter for me, Mr. Ewart?" she said, as she stood on the step with

her child in her arms, watching for the postman.

"None to-day, Mrs. Walkingham; better luck next time!" answered the

functionary, as he trotted past. Mary, disappointed was turning in,

resolving that night to write and upbraid her husband for causing her so

much uneasiness, when she heard the horn that announced the approach of

the London coach, and she stopped to see it pass; for there were

pleasant memories connected with that coach: it was the occasion of her

first acquaintance with Tracy--so had the driver sounded his horn, which

she, absorbed in her troubles, had not heard; so had he cracked his

whip; so had the wheels rattled over the stones; and so had the idle

children in the street run hooting and hallooing after it; but not so

had it dashed up to her door and stopped. It cannot be!--yes, it

is--Tracy himself, in a drab great-coat and crape round his hat, jumping

down from behind! The guard throws him a large portmanteau, and a paper

parcel containing a new gown for Mary and a frock for the boy; and in a

moment more they are in the little back parlor in each other's arms.

Major D'Arcy was dead, and Tracy had returned to his wife to part no

more--so we will shut the door, and leave them to their happiness, while

we take a peep at Mr. Jonas Aldridge.

We left him writhing under the painful discovery that the rightful heir

of the property he was enjoying, at least so far as his uncle's

intentions were concerned, was not only in existence, but was actually

the husband of Lane's daughter; and although he sometimes hoped the

fatal paper had been destroyed, since he could in no other way account

for its non-production, still the galling apprehension that it might

some day find its way to light was ever a thorn in his pillow; and the

natural consequence of this irritating annoyance was, that while he

hated both Tracy and his wife, he kept a vigilant eye on their

proceedings, and had a restless curiosity about all that concerned them.

He would have been not only glad to eject them from the house they

occupied, and even to drive them out of the town altogether, but he had

a vague fear of openly meddling with them; so that the departure of the

regiment, and its being subsequently ordered abroad, afforded him the

highest satisfaction; in proportion to which was his vexation at Tracy's

release, and ultimate return as a free man, all which particulars he

extracted from Mr. Reynolds as regularly as the payment of the quarter's

rent.

"And what does he mean to do now?" inquired Jonas.

"To settle here, I fancy," returned Mr. Reynolds. "They seem to be doing

very well in the little shop; and I believe they have some thoughts of

extending their business."

This was extremely unpleasant intelligence, and the more so, that it was

not easy to discover any means of defeating these arrangements; for as

Mr. Jonas justly observed, as he soliloquized on the subject, "In this

cursed country there is no getting rid of such a fellow!"

In the town of which we speak there are along the shore several houses

of public resort of a very low description, chiefly frequented by

soldiers and sailors; and in war-times it was not at all an uncommon

thing for the hosts of these dens to be secretly connected with the

pressgangs and recruiting companies, both of whom, at a period when men

were so much needed for the public service, pursued their object after a

somewhat unscrupulous fashion. Among the most notorious of these houses

was one called the Britannia, kept by a man of the name of Gurney, who

was reported to have furnished, by fair means or foul, a good many

recruits to his Majesty's army and navy. Now it occurred to Mr. Jonas

Aldridge that Gurney might be useful to him in his present strait; nor

did he find any unwillingness on the part of that worthy person to serve

his purposes.

"A troublesome sort of fellow this Walkingham is," said Mr. Jonas; "and

I wouldn't mind giving twenty pounds if you could get him to enlist

again."

The twenty pounds was quite argument enough to satisfy Gurney of the

propriety of so doing; but success in the undertaking proved much less

easy than desirable. Tracy, who spent his evenings quietly at home with

his wife, never drank, and never frequented the houses on the quay,

disappointed all the schemes laid for entrapping him; and Mr. Jonas had

nearly given up the expectation of accomplishing his purpose, when a

circumstance occurred that awakened new hopes. The house next to that

inhabited by the young couple took fire in the night when everybody was

asleep; the party-walls being thin, the flames soon extended to the

adjoining ones; and the following morning saw poor Tracy and his wife

and child homeless, and almost destitute, their best exertions having

enabled them to save little more than their own lives and that of Mary's

father, who was now bedridden. But for his infirm condition they might

have saved more of their property; but not only was there much time

necessarily consumed in removing him, but when Tracy rushed into his

room, intending to carry him away in his arms, Lane would not allow him

to lift him from his bed till he had first unlocked a large trunk with a

key which was attached to a string hung round the sick man's neck.

"Never mind--never mind trying to save anything but your life! You'll be

burnt, sir; indeed you will; there's not a moment to lose," cried Tracy

eagerly.

But Lane would listen to nothing: the box must be opened, and one

precious object secured. "Thrust your hand down to the bottom--the

corner next the window--and you'll find a parcel in brown paper."

"I have it, sir--I have it!" cried Tracy; and lifting the invalid from

his bed with the strong arm of vigorous youth, he threw him on his back,

and bore him safely into the street.

"The parcel!" said Lane; "where is it?"

Tracy flung it to him, and rushed back into the house. But too late: the

flames drove him forth immediately; and finding he could do nothing

there, he proceeded to seek a shelter for his houseless family.

It was with no little satisfaction that Mr. Jonas Aldridge heard of this

accident. These obnoxious individuals were dislodged now without any

intervention of his, and the link was broken that so unpleasantly seemed

to connect them with himself. Moreover, they were to all appearance

ruined, and consequently helpless and defenseless. Now was the time to

root them out of the town if possible, and prevent them making another

settlement in it; and now was the time that Gurney might be useful; for

Tracy, being no longer a householder, was liable to be pressed, if he

could not be induced to reenlist.

In the mean while, all unconscious of the irritation and anxiety they

were innocently inflicting on the wealthy Mr. Jonas Aldridge, Tracy and

his wife were struggling hard to keep their heads above water in this

sudden wreck of all their hopes and comforts. It is so hard to rise

again after such a plunge; for the destruction of the poor is their

poverty; and _having_ nothing, they could undertake nothing, begin

nothing. The only thing open seemed for Tracy to seek service, and for

Mary to resume her needlework; but situations and custom are not found

in a day, and they were all huddled together in a room, and wanting

bread. The shock of the fire and the removal had seriously affected Lane

too, and it was evident that his sorrows and sufferings were fast

drawing to a close. He was aware of it himself, and one day when Mary

was out he called Tracy to his bedside, and asked him if Mr. Adams did

not think he was dying.

"You have been very ill before, and recovered," said Tracy, unwilling to

shock him with the sentence that the apothecary had pronounced against

him.

"I see," said Lane; "my time is come; and I am not unwilling to go, for

I am a sore burthen to you and Mary, now you're in trouble. I know

you're very kind," he added, seeing Tracy about to protest; "but it's

high time I was under ground. God knows--God knows I have had a sore

struggle, and it's not over yet! To see you so poor, in want of

everything, and to know that I could help you. I sometimes think there

could be no great harm in it either. The Lord have mercy upon me! What

am I saying?"

"You had better not talk any more, but try to sleep till Mary comes in,"

said Tracy, concluding his mind was beginning to wander.

"No, no," said Lane; "that won't do: I must say it now. You remember

that parcel we saved from the fire?"

"Yes I do," answered Tracy, looking about. "Where is it? I've never seen

it since."

"It's here!" said Lane, drawing it from under his pillow. "Look there,"

he added: "_not to be opened till after my death_. You observe?"

"Certainly, sir."

"_Not to be opened till after my death._ But as soon as I am gone, take

it to Mr. Jonas Aldridge: it belongs to him. There is a letter inside

explaining everything; and I have asked him to be good to you and Mary

for the sake of--for the sake of the hard, hard struggle I have had in

poverty and sickness, when I saw her young cheek fading with want and

work; and now again, when you are all suffering, and little Tracy too,

with his thin pale face that used to be so round and rosy: but it will

soon be over, thank God! You will be sure to deliver it into his own

hands?"

"I give you my word I will, sir."

"Take it away then, and let me see it no more; but hide it from Mary,

and tell her nothing about it."

"I will not, sir. And now you must try to rest."

"I feel more at peace now," said Lane; "and perhaps I may. Thank God the

worst struggle is over--dying is easy."

Mr. Adams was right in his prediction. In less than a week from the

period of that solemn behest poor Lane was in his grave; and his last

word, with a significant glance at Tracy, was--_remember_!

Mary had loved her father tenderly--indeed there was a great deal in him

to love; and he was doubly endeared to her by the trials they had gone

through together, and the cares and anxieties she had lavished on him.

But there was no bitterness in the tears she shed: she had never failed

him in their hours of trial; she had been a dutiful and affectionate

daughter, and he had expired peacefully in the arms of herself and her

kind and beloved husband. It was on the evening of the day which had

seen the remains of poor Maurice Lane deposited in the churchyard of St.

Jude that Tracy, having placed the parcel in his bosom, and buttoned his

coat over it, said to his wife--"Mary, I have occasion to go out on a

little business; keep up your spirits till I return; I will not be away

more than an hour;" and leaning over her chair he kissed her cheek, and

left the room. As he stepped from his own door into the street, he

observed two men leaning against the rails of the adjoining house, and

he heard one say to the other, "Yes, by jingo!" "At last!" returned the

other; whereupon they moved on, pursuing the same way he went himself,

but keeping at some distance behind.

Tracy could not quite say that he owed no man anything, for the fire had

incapacitated them from paying some small accounts which they would

otherwise have been able to discharge, and he even owed a month's rent;

but this, considering the circumstances of the case, he did not expect

would be claimed. Indeed Mr. Reynolds, who was quite ignorant of Mr.

Jonas' enmity, had hinted as much. He had therefore no apprehension of

being pursued for debt, nor, till he recollected that there was a very

active pressgang in the town, did it occur to him that the movements of

these men could be connected with himself. It is true that, as a

discharged soldier, he was not strictly liable, but he was aware that

immunities of this sort were not always available at the moment of need;

and that, as these persons did not adhere very strictly to the terms of

their warrant, once in their clutches, it was no easy matter to get out

of them: so he quickened his pace, and kept his eyes and ears on the

alert.

His way lay along the shore, and shortly before he reached the

Britannia, the two men suddenly advanced, and placed themselves one on

each side of him. But for the suspicion we have named, Tracy would have

either not observed their movements, or, if he had, would have stopped

and inquired what they wanted. As it was, he thought it much wiser to

escape the seizure at first, should such be their intention, than trust

to the justice of his cause afterward; so, without giving them time to

lay hands upon him, he took to his heels and ran, whereupon they sounded

a whistle, and as he reached Joe Gurney's door, he found his flight

impeded by that worthy himself, who came out of it, and tried to trip

him up. But Tracy was active, and making a leap, he eluded the

stratagem. The man, however, seized him, which gave time to the two

others to come up; and there commenced a desperate struggle of three to

one, in which, in spite of his strength and ability, Tracy would

certainly have been worsted but for a very unexpected reinforcement

which joined him from some of the neighboring houses, to whose

inhabitants Gurney's proceedings had become to the last degree odious;

more especially in the women, among whom there was scarcely one who had

not the cause of a brother, a son, or a lover to avenge. Armed with

pokers, brooms, or whatever they could lay their hands on, these Amazons

issued from their doors, and fell foul of Gurney, whom they singled from

the rest as their own peculiar prey. In the confusion Tracy contrived to

make his escape; and without his hat, and his clothes almost torn off

his back, he rushed in upon the astonished Mary in less than half an

hour after he had left her.

His story was soon told, and there was nothing sufficiently uncommon in

such an incident in those days to excite much surprise, except as

regarded the circumstance of the men lying in wait for him. Tracy was

not ignorant that malice and jealousy had occasionally furnished victims

to the press system; but they had no enemy they knew of, nor was there

any one, as far as they were aware, that had an interest in getting him

out of the way. It was, however, an unpleasant and alarming occurrence,

and he resolved on consulting a lawyer, in order to ascertain how he

might protect himself from any repetition of the annoyance.

With this determination, the discussion between the husband and wife

concluded for that night; but the former had a private source of

uneasiness, which on the whole distressed him much more than the seizure

itself, and which he could not have the relief of communicating to

Mary--this was the loss of the parcel so sacredly committed to his care

by his deceased father-in-law, and which he was on his way to deliver

into the hands of Mr. Jonas Aldridge when he met with the interruption.

It had either fallen or been torn from his bosom in the struggle, and

considering the neighborhood and the sort of people that surrounded him,

he could scarcely indulge the most remote hope of ever seeing it again.

To what the papers contained Lane had furnished him no clew; but whether

it was anything of intrinsic worth, or merely some article to which

circumstances or association lent an arbitrary value, the impossibility

of complying with the last and earnest request of Mary's father formed

far the most painful feature in the accident of the evening; and while

the wife lay awake, conjuring up images of she knew not what dangers and

perils that threatened her husband, Tracy passed an equally sleepless

night in vague conjectures as to what had become of the parcel, and in

forming visionary schemes for its recovery.

In the morning he even determined to face Gurney in his den; for it was

only at night that he felt himself in any danger from the nefarious

proceedings of himself and his associates. But his inquiries brought him

no satisfaction. The people who resided in the neighborhood of Gurney's

house, many of whom had engaged in the broil, declared they knew nothing

of the parcel; "but," said they, "if any of Gurney's people have it, you

need never hope to see it again." Tracy thought so too; however, he paid

a visit to their den of iniquity, and declared his determination to have

them summoned before the magistrates, to answer for his illegal seizure;

but as all who were present denied any knowledge of the affair, and as

he could not have sworn to the two ruffians who tracked him, he

satisfied himself with this threat without proceeding further in the

business.

Having been equally unsuccessful at the police-office, he determined

after waiting a few days in the hope of discovering some clew by which

he might recover the parcel, to communicate the circumstance to Mr.

Jonas Aldridge. He therefore took an early opportunity of presenting

himself in West Street.

"Here's a man wishes to see you, sir," said the servant.

"Who is it? What does he want?" inquired Mr. Jonas, who, recumbent in

his arm-chair, and his glass of port beside him, was leisurely perusing

his newspaper after dinner. "Where is he?"

"He's in the passage, sir."

"Take care he's not a thief come to look after the greatcoats and hats."

"He looks very respectable, sir."

"Wants me to subscribe to something, I suppose. Go and ask him what's

his business."

"He says he can't tell his business except to you, sir, because it's

something very partickler," said the maid, returning into the room. "He

says he's been one of your tenants; his name's Walkingham."

"Walkingham!" reiterated Mr. Jonas, dropping the newspaper, and starting

erect out of his recumbent attitude. "Wants me! Business! What business

can he possibly have with me? Say I'm engaged, and can't see him. No,

stay! Yes; say I'm engaged and can't see him."

"He wishes to know what time it will be convenient for you to see him,

sir, as it's about something very partickler indeed," said the girl,

again making her appearance.

Mr. Jonas reflected a minute or two; he feared this visit portended him

no good. He had often wondered that Tracy had not claimed relationship

with him, for he felt no doubt of his being his cousin; probably he was

now come to do it; or had he somehow got hold of that fatal will? One or

the other surely was the subject of his errand; and if I refuse to see

him, he will go and tell his story to somebody else. "Let him come in.

Stay! Take the lamp off the table, and put it at the other end of the

room."

This done, Mr. Jonas having reseated himself in his arm-chair in such a

position that he could conceal his features from his unwelcome visitor,

bade the woman send him in.

"I beg your pardon for intruding, sir," said Tracy, "but I thought it my

duty to come to you," speaking in such a modest tone of voice, that Mr.

Jonas began to feel somewhat reassured, and ventured to ask with a

careless air, "What was his business?"

"You have perhaps heard, sir, that Mr. Lane is dead?"

"I believe I did," said Mr. Jonas.

"Well, sir, shortly before his death he called me to his bedside and

gave me a parcel, which he desired me to deliver to you as soon as he

was laid in his grave."

"To me?" said Mr. Jonas, by way of filling up the pause, and concealing

his agitation, for he immediately jumped to the conclusion that the will

was really forthcoming now.

"Yes, sir, into your own hand; and accordingly the day he was buried I

set out in the evening to bring it to you; but the pressgang got hold of

me, and in the scuffle I lost it out of my bosom, where I had put it

for safety, and though I have made every inquiry, I can hear nothing of

it."

"What was it? What did the parcel contain?" inquired Mr. Jonas, eagerly.

"I don't know, I am sure, sir," answered Tracy. "It was sealed up in

thick brown paper; but, from the anxiety Mr. Lane expressed about its

delivery, I am afraid it was something of value. He said he should never

rest in his grave if you did not get it."

Mr. Jonas now seeing there was no immediate danger, found courage to ask

a variety of questions with a view to further discoveries; but as Tracy

had no clew to guide him with regard to the contents of the parcel

except his own suspicions, which he did not feel himself called upon to

communicate, he declared himself unable to give any information. All he

could say was, that "he thought the parcel felt as if there was a book

in it."

"A book!" said Mr. Jonas. "What sized book?"

"Not a large book, sir, but rather thick; it might be a pocket-book."

"Very odd!" said Mr. Jonas, who was really puzzled; for if the book

contained the will, surely it was not to him that Lane would have

committed it. However, as nothing more could be elicited on the subject,

he dismissed Tracy, bidding him neglect nothing to recover the parcel,

and inexpressibly vexed that his own stratagem to get rid of this

"discomfortable cousin," had prevented his receiving the important

bequest.

Whilst Tracy returned home, satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty as

far as he was able, Mr. Jonas having well considered the matter,

resolved on obtaining an interview with Joe Gurney himself; "for,"

thought he, "if the parcel contained neither money, nor anything that

could be turned into money, he may possibly be able to get it for me."

"Well, sir, I remembers the night very well," said Joe. "They'd ha' been

watching for that 'ere young chap, off and on, for near a fortnight,

when they got him, as luck would have it, close to my door; but he

raised such a noise that the neighbors came out, and he got away."

"But did you hear anything of the parcel?" inquired Mr. Jonas.

"Well, sir, I'm not sure whether I did or no," answered Gurney; "but I

think it was Tom Purcell as picked it up."

"Then you saw it?" said Mr. Jonas. "What did it contain? Where is it?"

"Well, I'm sure, sir, that is more than I can say," returned Gurney, who

always spared himself the pain of telling more truth than he could

avoid; "but Tom went away the next day to Lunnun."

"And did he take the parcel with him? Was there no address on it?"

"No, sir, not on the outside at least--there was something wrote, but it

wasn't addressed to nobody."

Although Mr. Jonas was perfectly aware that Gurney knew more than he

chose to tell, not wishing to quarrel with him, he was obliged to

relinquish the interrogative system, and content himself with a promise

that he would endeavor to discover the whereabout of Tom Purcell, and do

all he could to recover the lost article; and to a certain extent Gurney

intended to fulfill the engagement. The fact of the matter was, that the

parcel had been found by Tom Purcell, but not so exclusively as that he

could secure the benefit of its contents to himself. They had been

divided amongst those who put in their claim, the treasure consisting of

a black pocket-book, containing L95 in bank-notes, and Lane's letter,

sealed, and addressed to Mr. Jonas Aldridge. The profits being

distributed, the pocket-book and letter were added to the share of the

finder, and these, it was possible, might be recovered; and with that

view Gurney dispatched a missive to their possessor. But persons who

follow the profession of Tom Purcell have rarely any fixed address, and

a considerable time elapsed ere an answer was received; and when it did

come, it led to no result. The paper he had burnt, and the pocket-book

he had thrown into a ditch. He described the spot, and it was searched,

but nothing of the sort was found. Here, therefore, ended the matter to

all appearance, especially as Mr. Jonas succeeded in extracting from

Gurney that there was nothing in the book but that letter and some

money.

In the mean while, however, the pocket-book had strangely enough found

its way back to Thomas Street. A poor woman that carried fish about the

town for sale, and with whom Mary not unfrequently dealt, brought it to

her one day, damp, tattered, and discolored, and inquired if it did not

belong to her husband.

"Not that I know of," said Mary.

"Because," said the woman, "he came to our house one morning last winter

asking for a parcel. Now, I know this pocket-book--at least I think it's

the same--had been picked up by some of Gurney's folks the night afore,

though it wasn't for me that lives next door to him to interfere in his

matters. Hows'ever, my son's a hedger and ditcher, and when he came home

last night he brought it: he says he found it in a field near by the

Potteries."

"I do not think it is Tracy's," said Mary; "but if you will leave it,

I'll ask him." And the article being in too dilapidated a condition to

have any value, the woman told her she was welcome to it, and went away.

The consequence of this little event was, that when Tracy returned, Mary

became a participator in the secret which had hitherto been withheld

from her.