At this moment a voice calls 'Shop!' and a fairy, in the shape of a

shoeless ragged girl, taps upon the counter. Ben Sparrow goes into the

shop to serve, and Tottie is left alone with his effigy. Now it has

been mentioned above that Tottie has a vice, and this is it: she is

afflicted, not with a raging tooth, but with a tooth so sweet as to

weaken her moral sense, so to speak: she is unable to resist

temptation when it presents itself to her in the shape of sweetmeats

or fruit, and her notions as to the sacredness of such-like property

are so loose that (no one being by to see her do it) she helps

herself. And yet it is a proof that she possesses a wakeful

conscience, that she turns her back upon herself when she pilfers, as

if she would wish to make herself believe that she is unconscious of

what she is doing. Thus, seeing, say, a bowl of currants near, and no

person within sight, she will approach the bowl stealthily, and,

turning her back to it, will put her hand behind her, and take a

fistful, with an air of thinking of something else all the while. And

it is a proof that the moral obligation of her conscience is not

entirely dormant, that, after the act is committed and enjoyed, she

will, under the influence of a human eye, instantly defend herself

without being accused, by 'No, I never! no, I never!' This express

admission of guilt she can no more resist than she can resist the

temptation itself. At the present time the sweet effigy of Ben Sparrow

is lying within reach upon the table. Shutting her eyes. Tottie

stretches out her hand, and plucking her grandfather's left leg bodily

from his candied stomach, instantly devours it, cinnamon, raisins, and

all--and has just made the last gulp when Ben Sparrow, having served

his customer, reënters the parlour. He casts a puzzled look at his

dismembered effigy, and mutters,

'Well! if I didn't think I had made my two legs, may I be sugared!'

Which sweet oath is exactly appropriate to the occasion. Then he turns

to Tottie, who is gazing unconsciously at vacancy, with a wonderfully

intense expression in her eyes, and she immediately shakes her head

piteously, and cries,

'No, I never! no, I never!'

Ben Sparrow, having his doubts aroused by this vehement asseveration

of innocence, says mournfully,

'O, Tottie! Tottie! I didn't think you'd do it! To begin to eat me up

like that!'

But Tottie shakes her head still more vehemently, and desperately

reiterates, 'No, I never! no, I never!' With the frightful

consciousness that the proofs of her guilt are in her inside, and that

she has only to be cut open for them to be produced.

Ben Sparrow, with a grave face, makes himself another leg, moving

himself, however, out of Tottie's reach with reproachful significance.

An unexpected difficulty occurs at this point. Being top-heavy he

cannot balance himself upon his legs; but Ben is of an ingenious turn

of mind, and he hits upon the expedient of shoring himself up from

behind with stout sticks of cinnamon. Then, setting himself up, he

gazes at himself in admiration. Tottie's eyes are also fixed upon the

effigy; it possesses a horrible fascination for her.

HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS.

All night long Saul Fielding kneels by the side of his bed, absorbed

in the memory of the woman whom he loves, and who, out of her great

love for him, has deserted him. At first his grief is so great that he

cannot think coherently; his mind is storm-tossed. But after a time

the violence of his grief abates, and things begin to shape themselves

in his mind. The night is cold, but he does not feel the winter's

chill. The wind sighs and moans at his window, but he does not hear

it. As it leaves his lattice, and travels through the courts and

streets, it bears upon its wings the influence of the grief it has

witnessed, and it sobs to the stone walls, 'There kneels a man in

woe!' It gathers strength when it leaves the packed thoroughfares,

which, huddled together like a crowd of beggars, seem to seek warmth

in close contact, and becomes angry when it reaches the wide streets,

angrier still when it reaches the woods, where the trees tremble as it

rushes past them. Say that it rushes onward and still onward, and that

we have the power to follow it--that we see it merge into other winds,

and become furious--that we see its fury die away--that we leave the

winter and the night behind us--that we travel ahead of it over lands

and seas until we come to where spring and daylight are--that we

travel onward and still onward, until noon and spring are passed, and

we come to where bright sun and summer are. Where are we? Thousands,

upon thousands of miles away; but the time is the same, for as the

warm wind kisses us we look back and see the man kneeling by the side

of his bed. It is winter and night, and there kneels the man. It is

summer and day, and here is another man among the mountains lying on

the earth, looking at the clouds. And the time is the same. The

thoughts of both these men are in the past. What connection can there

be between these two in such adverse places, seasons, and

circumstances? They have never touched hands. What link can bind them?

Heart-links? Perhaps. It would not be so strange. It may be that at

this present moment, in some distant part of the world of which we

have only read or dreamt, links in your life's chain and mine are

being forged by persons whose faces we have never seen.

He is desolate. Jane has gone from him. She has left words of comfort

behind her, but he may never look upon her face again. She has given

him a task to fulfill. 'If I have done my duty by you,' she said, 'and

I have tried to do it, it remains for you to do your duty by me.' He

will be true to his dear woman, as she has been to him. He will strive

to perform the task she has set before him--he will strive to find a

way. Ay, if he dies in the attempt. He will consider presently how he

shall commence. In the mean time, he must think of Jane.

He falls into a doze, thinking of her, and with her in his mind the

past comes to him. The aspirations which filled his boyish mind--his

love for books--his desire to rise above his surroundings--his

reasonings upon the relation of this and that, and his theoretical

conclusions, which were to suddenly divert the common custom of

things, as if a creation could in a moment crumble into dust the

growth of centuries--his delight when he found that he was an orator,

and could move an assembly of men to various passions--his meeting

with Jane---- He went no farther. The memory of her as she was when he

first saw her, a bright flower--ah, how bright, how trustful and

womanly!--stopped farther thought, and for a time no vision appears of

his downfall, his weakness, his disgrace, his sinking lower, lower,

until he is almost a lost man. It comes to him presently with all its

shame; but when he wakes, the chaos of images in his mind resolves

itself into this: his life is before him, full of weeds, like an

untended garden, but here and there are Forget-me-nots, and each one

bears the name of Jane.

The morning light steals in upon his vigil, and still he has not

decided how or in what way he shall commence his new life. In truth he

is powerless. He has no weapons to fight with. His old confidence in

himself, his pride, his strength of will, are covered with the rust of

long weakness. Rising from his knees, he breaks the crust of ice upon

the water in his pitcher, and bathes his face. The cold water seems to

bring strength to him. He looks about the room, and everything within

the poor walls speaks of Jane's love and care for him. The fire is

laid with the last few sticks of wood and the last few lumps of coal.

The old kettle, filled, is on the hob. The last pinch of tea is in the

cup; the remains of the loaf are on the table. Not a thing is

forgotten. 'Dear woman!' he murmurs. 'It is like you!' He paces the

room slowly, striving to think of some path by which he can obtain a

home for Jane, and thereby win her and reward her. It is useless, he

knows, to seek for work here in the neighbourhood where he is known.

He is known too well, and has sunk too low. Who would believe in his

profession of amendment? Besides, what is the use of trying? He is of

the same trade as George Naldret, and even George, a better workman

than he, has resolved to leave, and try his fortune elsewhere, because

of the difficulty he finds in saving sufficient money to buy a home

for the girl he desires to marry. Even George is compelled to

emigrate---- He stops suddenly in the middle of the room, and draws

himself up with a spasmodic motion. Jane's words come to him: 'It is a

blessing for many that these new lands have been discovered. A man can

commence a new life there, without being crushed by the misfortunes or

faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. It

might be a blessing to you.' 'A new life in a new land!' he says

aloud. 'All the weakness and shame of the past wiped away because they

will not be known to those around me. I should feel myself a new

man--a better man; my strength, my courage would come back to me!' So

strong an impression does the inspiration of the thought make upon

him, that he trembles with excitement. But can he leave Jane--leave

the country which holds her dear form? Yes, he can, he will; the

memory of her will sustain him; and she will approve, as indeed she

has done already by her words. 'It is the only way!' he cries; 'the

only way!' Thus far he thinks, and then sinks into a chair,

despairing. The means! How can he obtain the means? He has not a

shilling in the world, nor any friends powerful enough to help him.

Heaven's gate seems to be more easily accessible to him than this new

land across the seas. But he does not allow himself to sink into the

lowest depth of despondency. Jane stands before him; her words are

with him; like wine they revive his fainting soul. 'Come, Saul,' he

cries aloud to himself, resolutely. 'Come--think! Cast aside your

weakness. Be your old self once more!' These words, spoken to himself

as though they came from the lips of a strong man, sound like a

trumpet in his ears, and really strengthen him. Again he thinks of

George Naldret. 'Mr. Million gave him his passage ticket,' he says;

'would Mr. Million give me one?' No sooner has he uttered the words

than the current of his thoughts is diverted, and he finds himself

speculating upon the cause of Mr. Million's generosity to George.

Friendship? No, it can scarcely be that. There can be no friendship

between George and Mr. Million. Kindness? Perhaps; and yet he has

never heard that Mr. Million was noted for the performance of kindly

actions. These considerations trouble him somewhat on George's

account, although he cannot explain to himself why the fact of Mr.

Million giving George a free passage ticket to the other end of the

world should cause him uneasiness. 'I wonder how it came about,' he

thinks. 'I never heard George speak of emigrating until the ticket was

promised to him. At all events, if George has any claim upon him, I

have none. But Mr. Million is a public man, and may be in favour of

emigration. It will cost him but little to assist me. There are

Government emigration ships which take a man over for almost nothing,

I have heard. A line of recommendation from Mr. Million in my favour

would be sufficient, perhaps. I will try; I will try. If I knew a

prayer that would make my appeal successful, I would say it.'

BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK.

As a public man, James Million, Esquire, M.P. for Brewingham, felt it

necessary to his position to spend two or three hours in his study

every morning, and to 'make-believe' to be busy. Had you asked James

Million what he was, he would not have told you that he was a brewer

or a capitalist, but would have replied briefly and emphatically, 'A

public man, sir.' Now, to be a public man, you must have a

shuttlecock; and whether it was that Mr. Million had a real sympathy

for the institution known as the working man, or because the working

man drank large quantities of Million's Entire and Million's Treble X,

it is certain that he set up the working man as his shuttlecock; and

it is quite as certain that he set it up without in the least

understanding it, being, indeed, a most unskilful player at any game

in which his own interests were not directly involved. The game of

battledoor and shuttlecock is a popular one with us from childhood

upwards, but I am not aware that any close observer and noter of

curious things has ever calculated how many shuttlecocks an ordinary

battledoor will outlast. Popular as the game is with children, it is

more popular with public men, who, battledoor in hand, are apt (in

their enthusiasm and love for the game) to run into exceedingly wild,

extremes when a new shuttlecock, with spick and span new feathers, is

cast among them. Such a superabundance of energy do they in their zeal

impart into the game that they often sorely bruise the poor

shuttlecock, and so knock it out of all shape and proportion that the

members of its family find it impossible to recognise it. How many a

poor shuttlecock have you and I seen on its last legs, as one might

say, in a desperate condition from being much hit and much missed and

much trodden into the mud, and with feathers that would rival those of

a roupy old hen in the last stage of dissolution! and looking upon it

in melancholy mood, may we not be excused for dwelling sadly upon the

time (but yesterday!) when its feathers were new and crimson-tipped,

and when it proudly took its first flight in the air?

In appearance, James Million, the eminent brewer, was a small, flabby

man, with a white face on which the flesh hung loosely. It had been

said of him that his morals were as flabby as his flesh--but this was

invented by a detractor, and if it conveyed any reproach, it was at

best a hazy one. He had a curious trick with his eyes. They were sound

and of the first water--not a flaw in them, as diamond merchants say;

but whenever there was presented for his contemplation or

consideration a question of a perplexing or disagreeable nature, he

would close one of his eyes, and look at it with the other. It was a

favourite habit with him to walk along the streets so, with one eye

closed; and a man who set himself up for a satirist, or a wag, or

both, once said: 'Jimmy Million is so moral that he doesn't like to

look on the wickedness of the world; so he shuts one eye, and can only

see half of it, and thereby saves himself half the pain.'

To James Million, as he sits in his study, comes a servant, who, after

due tapping at the door, so as not to disturb the ruminations of the

legislator, announces a man in the passage who desires to see Mr.

Million.

'Name? asks Mr. Million.

[Illustration]

'Saul Fielding,' answers the servant, and adds, 'but he says he does

not think you know him.'

'What does he look like?'

The servant hesitates; he has not made up his mind. Although Saul

Fielding is shabbily dressed, he is clean, and Jane's watchful care

has made his wardrobe (the whole of which he wears on his back) seem

better than it is. Besides, there is 'an air' about Saul Fielding

which prevents him being placed, in the servant's mind, on the lowest

rung of vagabondism.

'Is he a poor man? Is he a working man? demands Mr. Million

impatiently.

'He looks like it, sir,' replies the servant, not committing himself

distinctly to either statement.

Mr. Million has an idle hour before him, which he is not disinclined

to devote to the workingman question, so he bids the servant admit the

visitor.

'Wait a minute,' says Mr. Million to Saul Fielding as he enters the

room. Mr. Million evidently has found some very knotty problem in the

papers before him, for he bends over them, with knitted brows and

studious face, and shifts them about, and makes notes on other pieces

of paper, and mutters 'Pish!' and 'Psha!' and 'Very true!' and 'This

must be seen to!' with many remarks indicative of the engrossing

nature of the subject which engages his attention. After a sufficient

exhibition of this by-play, which doubtless impresses his visitor with

a proper idea of his importance and of the immense interest he takes

in public matters, he pushes the papers aside with a weary air, and

looks up, with one eye closed and one eye open. What he sees before

him does not seem to afford him any comfort: for it is a strange thing

with public players of battledoor and shuttlecock, that although they

have in theory a high respect for their shuttlecocks, they have in

absolute fact a very strong distaste for them. Seeing that he is

expected to speak, Saul Fielding commences; he is at no loss for

words, but he speaks more slowly than usual, in consequence of the

heavy stake he has in the interview.

'I have ventured to call upon you, sir,' he says, 'in the hope that

you will take some interest in my story, and that you will extend a

helping hand to a poor man.'

Somewhat fretfully--for careful as he strives to be, Saul Fielding has

been unwise in his introduction, which might be construed into an

appeal for alms--somewhat fretfully, then, Mr. Million interposes with

'A working man?'

'I hope I may call myself so--although, strictly speaking, I have done

but little work for a long time.'

Mr. Million gazes with curiosity at his visitor, and asks, in a

self-complacent, insolent tone, as if he knows all about it,

'Not able to get work, eh?

'I have not been able to get it, sir.'

'But quite willing to do it if you _could_ get it?'

'Quite willing, sir more than willing--thankful.'

Saul Fielding knows that already he is beginning to lose ground,' but

his voice is even more respectful and humble than at first--although

the very nature of the man causes him to speak with a certain

confidence and independence which is eminently offensive to the

delicate ears of the friend of the working man.

'Of course!' exclaims Mr. Million triumphantly and disdainfully. 'The

old cry! I knew it. The old cry! I suppose you will say presently that

there is not room for all, and that there are numbers of men who are

in the same position as yourself--willing to work, unable to obtain

it.'

Saul Fielding makes no reply; words are rushing to his tongue, but he

does not utter them. But Mr. Million insists upon being answered, and

repeats what he has said in such a manner and tone that Saul cannot

escape.

'I think, sir, that there are many men who are forced to be idle

against their will; that seems to be a necessity in all countries

where population increases so fast as ours does. But I don't complain

of that.'

'O!' cries Mr. Million, opening both his eyes very wide indeed. 'You

don't complain of that! You are one of those glib speakers, I have no

doubt, who foment dissatisfaction among the working classes, who tell

them that they are down-trodden and oppressed, and that masters are

fattening upon them! I should not be surprised to hear that you are a

freethinker.'

'No, sir, I am not that,' urges Saul Fielding, exquisitely distressed

at the unpromising turn the interview has taken; 'nor indeed have I

anything to complain of myself. I am too crushed and broken-down, as

you may see.'

'But if you were not so,' persists Mr. Million, growing harder as Saul

grows humbler, 'if you were in regular work, and in receipt of regular

wages, it would be different with you--eh? You would have something to

complain of then doubtless. You would say pretty loudly that the

working man is underpaid, and you would do your best to fan the flame

of discontent kept up by a few grumblers and idlers. You would do

this--eh? Come, come,' he adds haughtily, seeing that Saul Fielding

does not wish to answer; 'you are here upon a begging petition, you

know. Don't you think it will be best to answer my questions?'

'What is it you wish me to answer, sir?' asks Saul Fielding

sorrowfully.

'The question of wages. I want to ascertain whether you are one of

those who think the working classes are underpaid.'

Saul Fielding pauses for a moment; and in that brief time determines

to be true to himself. 'Jane would not have me do otherwise,' he

thinks.

'I think, sir,' he says, firmly and respectfully, 'that the working

classes--by which I mean all in the land who have to work with their

hands for daily bread--do not receive, as things go, a fair equivalent

for their work. Their wages are not sufficient. They seem to me to be

framed upon a basis which makes the work of ekeing them out so as to

make both ends meet a harder task than the toil by which they are

earned. The working man's discontent does not spring from his work; he

does that cheerfully almost always. It springs out of the fact, that

the results of his work are not sufficient for comfort, and certainly

not sufficient to dispel the terrible anxiety which hangs over the

future, when he is ill and unable to work, perhaps, or when he and his

wife are too old for work.'

'O, indeed!' exclaims Mr. Million. 'You give him a wife!'

'Yes, sir; his life would be a burden indeed without a woman's love.'

Mr. Million stares loftily at Saul Fielding.

'And children, doubtless!'

'Happy he who has them! It is Nature's law; and no man can gainsay

it.' The theme possesses a fascination for Saul Fielding, and he

continues warmly, 'I put aside as distinctly outrageous all that is

said of the folly and wickedness of poor people marrying and having

large families. This very fact, which theorists wax indignant

over--theorists, mind you, who have wives and families themselves, and

who, by their arguments, lay down the monstrous proposition that

nature works in the blood according to the length of a man's

purse--this very fact has made England strong; had it been otherwise,

the nation would have been emasculated. Besides, you can't set natural

feeling to the tune of theory; nor, when a man's individual happiness

is concerned, can you induce him to believe in the truth of general

propositions which, being carried out in his own person as one of the

units, would make his very existence hateful to him.'

Mr. Million opens his eyes even wider than before; such language from

the lips of the ragged man before him is indeed astonishing.

'What more have you to say? he gasps. 'You will want property equally

divided----'

'No, sir, indeed,' interrupts Saul Fielding, daring to feel indignant,

even in the presence of so rich a man, at the suggestion. 'The man who

makes honestly for himself is entitled to possess and enjoy. I am no

socialist.'

'You would, at all events,' pursues Mr. Million, 'feed the working

man with a silver spoon?--You would open the places of amusement for

him on the Sabbath?'

'I would open some places and shut others.'

'What places, now?'

'The museums, the public galleries. I would give him every chance--he

has a right to it--to elevate himself during the only leisure he has.'

'And in this way,' demands Mr. Million severely, 'you would desecrate

the Sabbath!'

For the life of him Saul Fielding cannot help saying,

'A greater desecration than even that can be in your eyes takes place

on the Sabbath in places that are open in the name of the law.'

'You refer to----'

'Public-houses. If they are allowed to be open, what reasonable

argument can be brought against the opening of places the good

influence of which is universally acknowledged? It is the withholding

of these just privileges that causes much discontent and ill-feeling.'

This is quite enough for Mr. Million. This man, ragged, penniless,

has the effrontery to tell the rich brewer to his face that he would

have the public picture-galleries and museums of art opened on the

Sabbath-day, and that he would shut the public-houses. Mr. Million can

find no words to express his indignation. He can only say, stiffly and

coldly,

'I have heard quite enough of your opinions, sir. Come to the point of

your visit. You see'--pointing to the papers scattered about the

table--'that I am very busy.'

'I came, sir,' he says sadly, 'in the hope that, seeing my distress,

you would not have been disinclined to assist me--not with money,

sir,' he adds swiftly, in answer to an impatient look of dissent from

Mr. Million, 'but with your good word. But I am afraid that I have

injured my cause by the expression of my opinions.'

'In what way did you expect that I could aid you?' asks Mr. Million

carelessly, as he settles himself to his papers.

'I have been especially unfortunate in my career, sir. As I told you,

I am willing to work, but am unable to obtain it. If I could emigrate;

if I could get into a new country, where labour is scarce, things

might be better for me.'

The poor man is helpless at the rich man's foot; and the rich man

plays with him, as a cat with a mouse.

'Well,' he says, 'emigrate. The country would be well rid of such as

you.'

Saul Fielding takes no notice of the insult. He is not to be turned

aside from his purpose, although he knows full well that he has missed

his mark.

'I have no means, sir; I am poor and helpless.'

'How do you propose to effect your object, then?'

'There are Government emigrant ships which take men out, I have heard,

for very little--for nothing almost. A line of recommendation from you

would be sufficiently powerful, I thought, to obtain me a passage.'

'Doubtless, doubtless,' this with a smile; 'but you are a man of some

perception, and having observed how utterly I disagree with your

opinions--which I consider abominable and mischievous to the last

degree--you can hardly expect me to give you the recommendation you

ask for. May I ask, as you are a perfect stranger to me, for I have no

recollection of you in any way, to what I am indebted for the honour

you have done me by choosing me to give you a good character?'

'You are a public man, sir, and I have heard a friend to the working

man. And as you had helped a friend of mine to emigrate by giving him

a free passage in a ship that sails this week----'

'Stop, stop, if you please. _I_ help a friend of yours to emigrate by

giving him a free passage! I think you are mistaken.'

'If you say so, sir, I must be. But this is what George Naldret gave

me to understand.'

'And pray who is George Naldret?' demands Mr. Million haughtily; 'and

what are his reasons for emigrating?'

'George Naldret,' returns Saul Fielding, in perplexity, 'is almost the

only friend I have in the world, and he is emigrating for the purpose

of putting himself into a position to marry more quickly than his

prospects here will allow him.'

'As you are introducing me,' says Mr. Million, with an air of supreme

indifference, 'to your friends, perhaps you would like also to

introduce me to the young lady--for of course' (with a sneer) 'she is

a young lady--he desires to marry.'

'Her name is Sparrow--Bessie Sparrow, granddaughter to an old grocer.'

Mr. Million becomes suddenly interested, and pushes his papers aside

with an exclamation of anger.

'What name did you say?'

'Miss Bessie Sparrow.'

The rich brewer ponders for a moment, evidently in no pleasant mood.

Then suddenly rings a bell. A servant appears.

'Is my son in the house?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Tell him to come to me instantly.'

Saul Fielding waits gravely. Seemingly, he also has found new food for

contemplation. Presently young Mr. Million appears.

'You sent for me, sir.'

'Yes, James. Do you know this person?' with a slight wave of the hand

in the direction of Saul Fielding, as towards a thing of no

consequence. Saul Fielding knows that his mission has failed, but does

not resent this contemptuous reference to him. He stands, humble and

watchful, before father and son.

'I have seen him,' says young Mr. Million, 'and I should say he is not

a desirable person in this house.'

'My opinion exactly. Yet, influenced by some cock-and-a-bull story, he

comes here soliciting my assistance to enable him to emigrate. The

country would be well rid of him, I am sure; but of course it is out

of my power to give such a person a good character to the emigration

commissioners.'

'Out of anybody's power, I should say,' assents young Mr. Million

gaily. 'To what cock-and-a-bull story do you refer?'

'He tells me--which is news to me--that I have given a free passage

ticket to a friend of his, George--George--what did you say?'

'George Naldret, sir.' Saul Fielding supplies the name in a manner

perfectly respectful.

'Ay--George Naldret. Such a statement is in itself, of course, a

falsehood. Even if I knew George Naldret, which I do not, and desired

to assist him, which I do not, the fact of his being engaged to be

married to any one of the name of Sparrow--a name which means disgrace

in our firm, as you are aware-would be sufficient for me not to do

so.'

Young Mr. Million steals a look at Saul Fielding, whose face, however,

is a mask; and in a hesitating voice says: 'I think I can explain the

matter; but it is not necessary for this person to remain. You do not

know, perhaps, that he was the chief mover in a strike a few years

ago, which threatened to do much mischief.'

'I am not surprised to hear it,' says the rich brewer; 'the opinions

he has expressed have prepared me for some such statement concerning

him. He would desecrate the Sabbath-day by opening museums and

picture-galleries, and he would curtail the liberty of the subject by

closing public-houses, and depriving the working man of his beer!

Monstrous! monstrous! He has nothing to say for himself, I suppose.'

'No, sir,' answers Saul Fielding, raising his head, and looking

steadily at young Mr. Million, 'except that I believed in the truth of

what I told you, and that I don't know whether I am sorry or glad that

I made the application to you.'

The rich brewer has already touched the bell, and the servant comes

into the room.

'Show this person to the door,' Mr. Million says haughtily; 'and if he

comes again, send for a policeman. He is a dangerous character.'

Saul Fielding's lips wreathe disdainfully, but he walks out of the

room, and out of the house, without a word of remonstrance. This

chance has slipped from him. Where next shall he turn? He walks slowly

onwards until he is clear of the rich brewer's house, and then stops,

casting uncertain looks about him. As a sense of his utter

helplessness comes upon him, a young woman brushes past him without

seeing him. He looks up. Bessie Sparrow! She is walking quickly, and

seems to see nothing, seems to wish to see nothing. Without any

distinct purpose in his mind, but impelled by an uncontrollable

undefinable impulse, Saul Fielding turns and follows her. A gasp of

pain escapes him as he sees her pause before Mr. Million's house. She

rings the bell, and the door is opened. She hands the servant a

letter, and the next moment she is in the house, shut from Saul

Fielding's view. The terror that comes upon him is so great that the

street and the sky swim before his eyes, and he clings to a lamp-post

for support.

'O, George!' he groans. 'O, my friend! How will you bear this? Good

God! what bitterness there is in life even for those who have not

fallen as I have done!'

TOTTIE'S DREAM.

When Tottie was put to bed, it was no wonder that she was haunted by

the sweet effigy of old Ben Sparrow, and that his stomach of candied

lemon-peel and his head of rich figs and currants presented themselves

to her in the most tempting shapes and forms her warm imagination

could devise. As she lay in bed, looking at the rushlight in the

washhand basin, the effigy appeared bit by bit in front of the basin

until it was complete, and when it winked one of its currant eyes at

her--as it actually did--the light of the candle threw a halo of glory

over the form. Her eyes wandering to the mantelshelf, she saw the

effigy come out of the wall and stand in the middle of the shelf; and

turning to the table, it rose from beneath it, and sat comfortably

down; with its legs of cinnamon and raisins tucked under it like a

tailor. When she closed her eyes she saw it loom in the centre of

dilating rainbow circles, and in the centre of dark-coloured discs,

which as they swelled to larger proportions assumed bright borderings

of colour, for the express purpose of setting off more vividly the

attraction of the figure. Opening her eyes drowsily, she saw the old

man come down the chimney and vanish in the grate, and as he

disappeared, down the chimney he came again, and continued thus to

repeat himself as it were, as if he were a regiment under full

marching orders. Whichever way, indeed, Tottie's eyes turned, she saw

him, until the room was full of him and his sweetness, and with his

multiplied image in her mind she fell asleep.

No wonder that she dreamt of him. Tottie and Bessie slept in the same

room, and Tottie dreamt that long after she fell asleep--it must have

been long after, for Bessie was in bed--she woke up suddenly. There

she was, lying in bed, wide awake, in the middle of the night. The

room was dark, and she could not see anything, but she could hear

Bessie's soft breathing. She was not frightened, as she usually was in

the dark, for her attention was completely engrossed by one feeling. A

frightful craving was upon her, which every moment grew stronger and

stronger. This craving had something horrible in it, which, however,

she did not quite realise. In the next room slept old Ben Sparrow,

who, according to the fancy of her dream, was not made of blood, and

flesh, and bone, but of lemon-peel, fig, and currants and raisins. All

the sweet things in the shop had been employed in the manufacture, and

there they lay embodied in him.

Tottie knew nothing of theology; knew nothing of the value of her

soul, which, without a moment's hesitation, she would have bartered

for figs and candied lemon-peel. And there the delicious things lay,

in the very next room. If she could only get there!--perhaps he would

not miss an arm or a leg. But to eat the old man who was so kind to

her! She had a dim consciousness of the wickedness of the wish, but

she could not rid herself of it. Thought Tottie, 'He won't know if

he's asleep, and perhaps it won't hurt him. I know it would do me

good.' Her mouth watered, her eyes glistened, her fingers twitched to

be at him, her stomach cried out to her. She could _not_ withstand the

temptation. Slowly and tremblingly she crept out of bed, and groped

along the ground towards the door. Bessie was asleep. Everybody was

asleep. The house was very quiet. Everything favoured the

accomplishment of the horrible deed. 'Nobody will know,' thought

Tottie. Thoroughly engrossed in her desperate cannibalistic purpose,

and with her teeth grating against each other, Tottie turned the

handle of the door and opened it; but as she looked into the dark

passage Ben Sparrow's door opened, and a sudden flood of light poured

upon her. It so dazzled her, and terrified her, that she fled back to

her bed on all-fours, and scrambled upon it, with a beating heart and

a face as white as a ghost's.

[Illustration]

Sitting there glaring at the door, which she had left partly open in

her flight, she saw the light steal into the room, and flying in the

midst of it, old Ben Sparrow. He was not quite as large as life, but

he was ever so many times more sweet and delicious-looking. As old Ben

Sparrow appeared, the room became as light as day, and Tottie noticed

how rich and luscious were the gigantic fig which formed his head, the

candied lemon-peel which formed his stomach, the raisins which clothed

his legs and arms; and as for the ripeness of his dark, beady, fruity

eyes, there was no form of thought that could truly express the

temptation that lay in them. Ben Sparrow hovered in the air for a few

moments, and then steadied himself, as it were: he stood bolt upright,

and, treading upon nothing; advanced slowly and solemnly, putting out

one leg carefully, and setting it down firmly upon nothing before he

could make up his mind to move the other. In this manner he approached

Tottie, and sat down on her bed. For a little while Tottie was too

frightened to speak. She held her breath, and waited with closed lips

for him to say something. But as grandfather did not move or speak,

her courage gradually returned, and with it, her craving for some of

him. She became hungrier than the most unfortunate church-mouse that

ever breathed; her rapacious longing could only be satisfied in one

way. Timorously she reached out her hand towards his face; he did not

stir. Towards his eyes; he did not wink. Her finger touched his eye;

it did not quiver--and out it came, and was in her hand! Her heart

throbbed with fearful ecstasy, as with averted head she put the

terrible morsel in her mouth. It was delicious. She chewed it and

swallowed it with infinite relish, and, when it was gone, thirsted for

its fellow. She looked timidly at the old man. There was a queer

expression in his fig face, which the loss of one of his eyes had

doubtless imparted to it. 'It doesn't seem to hurt him,' thought

Tottie. Her eager fingers were soon close to the remaining eye, and

out that came, and was disposed of in like manner. Tottie certainly

never knew how good Ben Sparrow was until the present time. She had

always loved him, but never so much as now. The eyeless face had a

mournful expression upon it, and seemed to say sadly, 'Hadn't you

better take me next?' Tottie clutched it desperately. It wagged at

her, and from its mace lips a murmur seemed to issue, 'O, Tottie!

Tottie! To serve me like so this!' But Tottie was ravenous. No fear of

consequences could stop her now that she had tasted him, and found how

sweet he was. She shut her eyes nevertheless, as, in the execution of

her murderous purpose, she tugged at his head, which, when she had

torn from his body, she ate bit by bit with a rare and fearful

enjoyment. When she looked again at the headless figure of the old

man, one of the legs moved briskly and held itself out to her with an

air of 'Me next!' in the action. But Tottie, hungering for the

lemon-peel stomach, disregarded the invitation. It was difficult to

get the stomach off, it was so tightly fixed to its legs. When she

succeeded, the arms came with it, and she broke them off short at the

shoulder blade, and thought she heard a groan as she performed the

cruel operation. But her heart was hardened, and she continued her

feast without remorse. How delicious it was! She was a long time

disposing of it, for it was very large, but at length it was all

eaten, and not a piece of candied sugar was left. As she sucked her

fingers with the delight of a savage, a sense of the wickedness of

what she had done came upon her. Her grandfather, who had always been

so kind to her! She began to tremble and to cry. But the arms and legs

remained. They _must_ be eaten. Something dreadful would be done to

her if they were discovered in her bed; so with feverish haste she

devoured the limbs. And now, not a trace of the old man remained.

She had devoured him from head to foot She would never see him

again--never, never! How dreadful the table looked, with him _not_ on

it! How Tottie wished she hadn't done it! She was appalled at the

contemplation of her guilt, and by the thought of how she would be

punished if she were found out. In the midst of these fears the light

in the room vanished, and oblivion fell upon Tottie in the darkness

that followed.

I CAN SEE YOU NOW, KISSING HER LITTLE TOES.

The next day, being George's last day at home, was a day of sorrow to

all the humble persons interested in his career. He, was to start for

Liverpool by an early train on the following morning, and was to pass

his last evening at Ben Sparrow's, with the old man and Bessie and

Tottie and his mother and father. He had decided to bid Bessie

good-bye in her grandfather's house. Bessie was for sitting up all

night, but he said gently,

'I think, Bessie, that mother would like to have me all to herself the

last hour or two. You know what mothers are! By and by, heart's

treasure! you will have the first claim on me; but now mother looks

upon me as all her own, and it will comfort her heart, dear soul! to

let it be as I say.'

There were tears in George's eyes as he looked down upon the face of

his darling, and his heart almost fainted within him at the thought of

parting from her. And, 'Do you love me, Bess?' he asked, for the

thousandth time.

'With all my heart and soul,' replied Bessie, pressing him in her

arms. And so, with his head bowed down to hers, they remained in

silent communion for many minutes. They were sitting in Ben Sparrow's

parlour, and the old man had left the young people by themselves,

finding occupation in his shop, in the contemplation of his effigy,

and in weighing up quarters of a pound of sugar. There was a woful

look in Ben Sparrow's face as he stood behind his counter; times were

hard with him, and his till was empty.

'Bess, darling,' said George, waking up from his dream. She raised her

tearful eyes to his. He kissed them. 'As I kiss away your tears now,

my dear, so I will try to take sorrow and trouble from you when we

commence our new life.'

'I know it, George; I know it,' she said, and cried the more.

'But that is not what I was going to say. I was going to say this.

Listen to me, dearest: If it were not for you, I shouldn't go; if it

were not for you, I should stay at home, and be content. For I love

home, I love the dear old land, I love mother and father, and the old

black cat, and the little house I was born in. And it's because of you

that I am tearing myself from these dear things. I am going to earn

money enough to make a home for you and me; to make you more quickly

all my own, all my own! How my heart will yearn for you, dear, when I

am over the seas! But it will not be for long; I will work and save,

and come back soon, and then, my darling, then!----' The tenderness of

his tone, and the tenderness there was in the silence that followed,

were a fitter and more expressive conclusion to the sentence than

words could have made. 'I shall say when I am in the ship, I am

here for Bessie's sake. When I am among strangers, I shall think of

you, and think, if I endure any hardship, that I endure it for my

darling--and that will soften it, and make it sweet; it will, my dear!

I shall not be able to sleep very much, Bess, and that will give me

all the more hours to work--for you, my darling, for you! See here,

heart's treasure; here is the purse you worked for me, round my neck.

It shall never leave me--it rests upon my heart. The pretty little

beads! How I love them! I shall kiss every piece of gold I put in it,

and shall think I am kissing you, as I do now, dear, dearest, best! I

shall live in the future. The time will soon pass, and as the ship

comes back, with me in it, and with my Bessie's purse filled with

chairs and tables and pots and pans, I shall see my little girl

waiting for me, thinking of me, longing to have me in her arms as I

long to have her in mine. And then, when I _do_ come, and you start

up from your chair as I open the door!----Think of that moment,

Bess--think of it!'

'O, George, George, you make me happy!'

And in such tender words they passed the next hour together, until

George tore himself away to look after some tools, which he was to

take with him to coin chairs and tables and pots and pans with. But if

he did not wish his tools to rust, it behoved him not to bring them

too close to his eyes, for his eyelashes were dewy with tears.

Now, late as it was in the day for such common folk as ours, Tottie

had not yet made her appearance downstairs. The first in the morning

to get up in the house was old Ben Sparrow, and while he was taking

down his shutters, and sweeping his shop and setting it in order,

Bessie rose and dressed, and prepared the breakfast. Then, when

breakfast was nearly ready, Bessie would go upstairs to dress and wash

Tottie; but on this particular morning, on going to the little girl's

bedside, Tottie cried and sobbed and shammed headache, and as Tottie

was not usually a lie-abed, Bessie thought it would do the child good

to let her rest. And besides being as cunning as the rest of her sex,

Bessie was the more inclined to humour Tottie's whim, because she knew

that George would be sure to drop in early; and if Tottie were out of

the way, she and her lover could have the parlour all to themselves.

George being gone, however, there was no longer any reason for Tottie

keeping her bed; so Bessie washed and dressed the child, and was

surprised, when taking her hand to lead her downstairs, to see Tottie

shrink back and sob and cry that she didn't want to go.

'Come, be a good child, Tottie,' said Bessuel 'grandfather's

downstairs, and he wants to play with you.'

At this Tottie sobbed and sobbed, and shook her head vehemently. She

knew very well that it was impossible for Ben Sparrow to be

downstairs, for had she not eaten him in the night, every bone of him?

She was morally convinced that there was not a bit of him left.

Grandfather play with her! He would never play with her any more; she

had done for him! Her fears were so great that she fancied she could

feel him stirring inside of her. But although she was rebellious, she

was weak, and so, shutting her eyes tight, she went into the parlour

with Bessie. Then she ran tremblingly into a corner, and stood with

her face to the wall, and her pinafore over her head; and there

Bessie, having more pressing cares upon her just then, left her. When

Tottie, therefore, heard the old man's voice calling to her, she

sobbed, 'No, I never! No, I never!' and was ready to sink through the

floor in her fright; and when the old man lifted her in his arms to

kiss her, it was a long time before she could muster sufficient

courage to open her eyes and feel his face and his arms and his legs,

to satisfy herself that he was really real. And even after that, as if

she could not believe the evidence of her senses, she crept towards

him at intervals, and touched him and pinched his legs, to make

assurance doubly sure.

Ben Sparrow found it hard work to be playful to-day, and Tottie had

most of her time to herself. If the anxiety depicted on his face were

any criterion, his special cares and sorrows must have been of an

overwhelming nature. In the afternoon young Mr. Million came in,

spruce and dandified, and handsome as usual. The young gentleman was

not an unfrequent visitor at the little grocer's shop, and would often

pop in and chat for an hour with Ben Sparrow; he would sit down in the

back parlour in the most affable manner, and chat and laugh as if they

were equals. Bessie was not at home when he came this afternoon, and

he seemed a little disappointed; but he stopped and chatted for all

that, and when he went away, the old grocer brightened, and his face

looked as if a load were lifted from his heart. His brighter mood met

with no response from Bessie, when she came in shortly afterwards.

Some new trouble seemed to have come on her since the morning--some

new grief to which she hardly dared give expression. She had been

stabbed by a few presumably chance and careless words spoken by a

neighbour--need it be told that this neighbour was a woman? No weapon

can be keener than a woman's tongue, when she chooses to use it to

stab. The woman who had uttered the words was young--a year older than

Bessie--and it was known at one time that she was setting her cap at

Bessie's sweetheart. But she had met with no encouragement from

George, who, being wrapt heart and soul in Bessie, had no eyes for

other women. George often nodded a laughing assent to a favourite

saying of his mother's, that 'One woman was enough for any man; more

than enough, sometimes,' Mrs. Naldret would occasionally add. The stab

which Bessie received shall be given in the few words that conveyed

it.

'So George goes away to-morrow morning,' was the woman's remark to

Bessie as she was hurrying home with heavy heart.

'Yes,' sighed Bessie; 'to-morrow morning.'

'Ah,' said the woman, 'he'll be nicely cut up at leaving. I daresay

he'd give a good deal, if he could take some one with him.'

'I am sure he would,' said Bessie, thinking that by 'some one' herself

was meant.

'O, I don't mean you,' said the woman, seeing the interpretation that

Bessie put upon her words.

'Who do you mean, then?' asked Bessie, looking up quickly.

The woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

'Well!' she exclaimed. 'Some girls _are_ blind! Thank goodness, the

best man in the world couldn't blind me so!'

'What do you mean?' demanded Bessie, in an agitated tone, all the

blood deserting her face. 'What have you to say against George?'

The woman laughed again.

'You've no cause to be jealous, Bessie,' she said, 'it's only a child.

But I _do_ think, if I was George's sweetheart'--Bessie's lip curled,

and this little expression made the woman's tone more venomous--'I

_do_ think,' she added with scornful emphasis, 'that if I was George's

sweetheart--O, you needn't curl your lip, Bessie!--I should ask

him--who--Tottie's--father--was! A woman isn't worth that'--with a

snap of her finger--'if she hasn't got a spirit.'

And George's discarded left Bessie white and trembling, with this

wound in her heart.

Bessie looked after the woman, dazed for a few moments by the

accusation conveyed in the words; then she became suddenly indignant,

and the blood rushed back to her face and neck; it dyed her bosom, and

she knew it and felt it, and felt the stab there also. Then she

hurried home.

Ben Sparrow did not notice her agitation at first; he was too much

rejoiced at the lifting of a heavy weight from him. In the morning

ruin had stared him in the face; a small creditor had come down

upon him; had given him twenty-four hours to pay an account which,

trifling as it was, he was not possessed of. But young Mr. Million had

been to see him and had saved him. He would be able to pay this hard

creditor--I am ashamed to say for how trifling an amount--in the

morning, and he was exultant 'I am only too glad,' this young

gentleman had said, 'to have the opportunity of rendering a service to

Bessie's grandfather.' When he departed, old Ben Sparrow actually

danced in his parlour in thankfulness for the danger escaped.

'Bessie,' cried Ben Sparrow as his granddaughter entered, 'young Mr.

Million has been here.'

Bessie nodded, scarcely heeding the words.

'He's a gentleman,' continued Ben Sparrow, 'every inch of him; to

forget the past, as he does.'

'What past, grandfather?' asked Bessie. 'Forget what?'

'O, nothing--nothing, my dear,' exclaimed Ben hurriedly, and coughing

as if something had come up or gone down the wrong way. 'What I say

is, he's a gentleman, every inch of him.'

'You said that before, grandfather.'

'Did I? yes, of course. But I'm an old man, Bessie, and you must make

allowances. We can't be all bright and fresh, and always happy as my

dear child is.'

Bessie kissed Ben Sparrow's neck, and laid her head oh his shoulder.

'Always happy, grandfather! Am I always happy?'

'Of course you are, dear child, and it's natural and right and proper.

Sorry and grieved, of course, because our sweetheart's going away--but

he'll be back soon, never fear. And we'll talk of him every day and

every night, my dear, and the time'll fly away'--he blew a light

breath--'like that! Ah, my dear! it's only the old that knows how

quickly time flies!'

Bessie said nothing, but pressed closer to the old shield that had

sheltered her from babyhood to womanhood.

'And now see,' said the old shield, 'what young Mr. Million brought

for you. And you're to wear them at once, he said, and I say so too,

and I promised him you would, for he's coming here tonight, and is

going to do me such a kindness as only the kindest heart in the world

could do.'

Ben Sparrow took from his pocket a little box, and opened it, and

produced therefrom a piece of tissue-paper, and from the tissue-paper

a pair of pretty turquoise earrings set in gold. Bessie scarcely

looked at them, and allowed Ben to take from her ears the pair of old

ear-rings she had worn for ever so many years, and replace them with

Mr. Million's pretty present.

'You look, Bessie,' said old Ben, falling back and contemplating her,

'you look like a Princess! and it's my opinion, my dear, that you are

every bit as good as one.'

He held a piece of looking-glass before her, and desired her to look

at herself. To please him she said they _were_ very pretty, and then

said, suddenly coming to what was uppermost in her mind, 'Grandfather,

I want you to tell me about Tottie.'

'About Tottie, my dear!' exclaimed Ben Sparrow wonderingly.

'Yes,' replied Bessie, sitting down, 'about Tottie. All I know is that

you came and asked me once if I would mind if you brought a little

friendless girl home to live with us, and if I would take care of

her.'

'And you said Yes, gladly, for it would be company for us, and would

make the place pleasant. And I'm sure neither you nor me have ever

repented it. If Tottie was our own flesh and blood we couldn't be

fonder of her. I shouldn't know what to do without her now I've got so

used to her. I'll tell you the story by and by, my dear, when George

has gone----'

'No,' interrupted Bessie, so impetuously as to cause old Ben to jump;

'now! I want to know now. Ah, dear grandfather! you have always been

so good to me that I can't help being a tyrant.'

'You a tyrant!' cried Ben, appealing with raised hands to the walls

and the furniture to join him in the repudiation of the astonishing

statement. 'That's a good one, that is. Well, my dear, as you want to

know at once, and as you're such a tyrant--ha, ha! I can't help

laughing, my dear--here goes. It's now three years gone, Bess--before

George and you began to keep company, my dear--that George comes and

tells me a story of a poor little thing that had been thrown helpless

upon the world. "Such a pretty little thing!" says George, "and not a

friend but me to look after her! I wish I knew some one," says George,

"who would take care of the dear; I'm sure I could never be grateful

enough to them." Then I asked how old the child was, and whether she

did not have relations. "Yes," said George, "she had two, but they had

no home and were altogether in too bad a position to take care of the

little one." Then I thought of you, my dear, and thought it would be

company for my Bessie and for me, and that if we grew to love the

child, there would be nothing to repent of. I told George this, and

George confessed that he had the same thing in his mind too, and that

was the reason why he spoke to me about it--hoping that I would say

what I had said. And so, to cut a long story short, one night a woman

came to the door with little Tottie in her arms, and kissed the child

a many times, and George brought Tottie in. I didn't see the woman's

face, but I fancied that she was crying. I have often wished since

that I had seen her face, the poor creature seemed in such distress.

You remember, Bessie, when you came home an hour afterwards, and found

me sitting before the fire with Tottie in my lap, warming her little

toes, how you fell in love with her directly, and how happy she made

us, and how this very parlour was, because Tottie was with us, really

made a great deal more cheerfuller than ever it had been before! You

remember the wonderful dimples that came into her face when she

looked at us, and broke out a-smiling, as much as to say, 'How d'you

do, old Ben and young Bess? I'm very glad to see you!' Why, it was as

good as a play! I can see you now kissing her little toes, and can see

her crowing and laughing when you kissed her neck--so fat, and so full

of creases! and I can see her clenching her little fist and

flourishing it in the air as much as to say, "In this fist I've got a

hundred-pound note, and all the world and his wife sha'n't take it

from me!" Dear, dear! the child _has_ been a comfort to us, and it was

a bright day when she came into the house, the poor little thing! Then

George says, "You're not to be expected to keep Tottie for nothing,

Mr. Sparrow; and here's three shillings a week, and when she gets a

big girl perhaps we'll be able to spare more." And he's paid the three

shillings a week regular, and has brought little things for her now

and then, such as a frock, you know, or a flannel petticoat, or a

little pair of shoes. And that's the whole of the story, Bess.'

Bessie had listened very attentively to the narration of Tottie's

history, and now said, after a pause, with a strange hesitation in her

voice,

'Grandfather, did George never tell you--who--Tottie's--father--was?

'No, my dear. I remember once it coming up between us somehow, but

George turned it off, and said it didn't matter to Tottie, who seemed

as happy as the day was long--and so she was, and is, my dear.'

At that moment 'Shop!' was called, and Ben Sparrow hurried in to

attend to his customer, and the subject dropped.

ONE KISS FOR HOPE, ONE FOR FAITH, AND ONE FOR LOVE.

Tea was over and cleared away in the little back parlour, and Bessie

and old Ben Sparrow sat looking sadly into the fire. Tottie was also

present in her high chair, but there was nothing of sadness in her

thoughts. She was enjoying, in anticipation, what was spread upon the

table; for after the fashion of humble folk, preparations had been

made for 'a party' on this last evening which George was to spend with

them. There was a bottle of 'sherry wine' on the table, and another of

port, which old Ben had bought at a large grocer's shop over

Westminster-bridge, at a cost, for the two bottles, of two shillings

and fourpence; and that the wine was of an old and rich vintage, was

proved by the mildew and sawdust which clung to the bottles. There

were six wine-glasses of different shapes and patterns; and there was

a plate of almonds and raisins, and another of figs, and some small

seed-cakes, and four oranges cut in quarters; so that, altogether, the

table presented quite a festive appearance. There was nothing festive,

however, in the countenances of Bessie and her grandfather; their

faces were as sad as their thoughts. It was but natural. And yet they

would have been loth to have confessed to each other the exact tenor

of their contemplations.

[Illustration]

A bustle in the shop caused Ben Sparrow to jump from his chair.

'That's Mr. and Mrs. Naldret,' he said, and opened the parlour-door

and gave them welcome.

'Well, Bessie,' said Mrs. Naldret, and 'Well, my girl,' said Jim

Naldret, and they both kissed her, and shook hands with old Ben, who

bustled about doing nothing, while Bessie assisted Mrs. Naldret to

take off her bonnet and things. Mrs. Naldret had with one glance taken

in the preparations for the party, and approved of them.

'What a pretty pair of earrings!' exclaimed Mrs. Naldret, admiring the

turquoise trifles in Bessie's pink ears, and, 'Well, George is a sly

one!' said Jim Naldret, pinching the pretty ears.

'George didn't give them to her,' said Ben Sparrow, rubbing his hands;

'no, nor me either. I'm not rich enough; though if I could afford it,

Bessie should have had such a pair long ago, and a gold chain and a

watch as well.'

'She's pretty enough to have them,' said Jim Naldret.

'And good enough,' added Ben. 'Well, I _am_ glad to see you! But I

wish it was to welcome George back instead of wishing him good-bye.

Eh, Bess?'

'Yes, grandfather,' replied Bessie, with a heavy sigh.

Mrs. Naldret said nothing; she was thinking who had given Bessie the

turquoise ear-rings; she knew they could not have cost less than four

pounds at least.

'There's George,' said Jim Naldret, as the shop-door opened.

Bessie turned eagerly to the door, but Ben Sparrow stepped before her

and said in a hurried agitated tone,

'I should like to have a few quiet words with George, my dear; I

sha'n't have another opportunity. Mrs. Naldret won't mind.'

That worthy woman nodded, and Ben Sparrow, going into the shop,

stopped George's entrance into the parlour.

'Don't go in for a minute,' said Ben; 'I want to speak to you.'

'All right, grandfather; but I must have a kiss of Bessie first.

Bessie!'

The girl ran into the shop at his call, and nestled in his arms for a

moment.

'There! there!' exclaimed old Ben, taking Bessie's hand gently and

kindly. 'Go inside, Bess, my dear. That's all George wanted with you.

We'll be in presently.'

Bessie went into the parlour, and George's heart was like a nest from

which the dearly-loved bird had flown. That little embrace, with

Bessie, warm and soft and tender in his arms, contained such exquisite

happiness as to be painful.

'I'll not keep you two minutes,' said Ben Sparrow; 'come to the door,

so that we may not be heard.'

They went to the shop-door, and into the street, which they paced

slowly as they conversed.

'As I was sitting inside by the fire, just now, George,' resumed Ben,

'there came into my mind something which I think I ought to speak of

before you go away. It brought back old-time memories, too. You see,

my dear boy, I am an old man, and there's no telling what may happen.

It is a comfort to me that Bessie will have a good man for a

husband--for I believe you to be good, and--and a man, George!'

'Indeed, Mr. Sparrow, I will do my best. It will be my happiness to

make her happy.'

'I believe it will be, George, and that's why I'm glad she will be

yours. I have nothing to give her, George, nothing. I am so poor that

I don't know which way to turn sometimes to pay little pay little

bills.'

'I want nothing with her, Mr. Sparrow. I want no better fortune than

Bessie herself.' He was overflowing with love for his dear girl.

'She's good enough to be a Princess,' said Ben proudly, 'good enough

to be a Queen.'

'She's my Princess and my Queen,' replied George; 'and she's a good

girl and will be a good wife, and that's better than all.'

'That it is--that it is. But don't interrupt me, George. I thought

once I should be better off than I am, but something went wrong with

me, and I lost all my little savings. Since then, I have been going

down, till sometimes I think I can't go down any lower.' Old Ben

Sparrow paused here, and before he resumed closed his eyes, and put

his hand over them, as if with his inner sense of sight he were

looking into the past. 'George, I am going to speak of Bessie's

father--and my son; it is only right that I should, for you may meet

him.'

'Meet him, Mr. Sparrow!'

'Yes,' replied the old man in a quiet tone, 'I daresay you have heard

that he ran away, years ago, in disgrace. Bessie was quite a little

thing then, and I don't think any one has been so unkind as to speak

of it to her. To tell you the truth, George, she believed years ago

that her father was dead, and it is best that she should not be told

different. And he may be dead, George, for all I know. He was employed

as one of old Mr. Million's collectors, and he used money that didn't

belong to him. He used my money, too, and put my name to papers

without my knowing; so that when he ran away, to prevent something

worse happening, I had to pay, which brought me down, and kept me

down, George. This is a solemn secret between us, George, and must

never again be spoken of.'

'I understand, sir.'

'But I thought it right that you should know before you go away. It

don't alter your opinion of Bessie, does it, George? does it, my boy?'

'Alter my opinion of Bessie!' exclaimed George warmly. 'It gives her a

greater claim on me. I love her more for it, dear girl, knowing how

unhappy it would cause her to know this. Of course, it must be kept

from her!'

'Dear boy, God bless you! God bless you, dear boy!' cried old Ben

Sparrow, with the tears running down his face. 'And, George--when you

make a little money, and come home with it to make Bessie happy, be

contented. Don't go striving after riches, as my son did, and forgot

the meaning of honesty and the happiness there is in contentment. From

the time he ran away, I have never had a line from him. But I heard

that he was seen in Australia, and if he is alive, you may meet him,

for there are not many people there. Strange things _do_ happen,

George! You may meet him, and know him. I daresay he has grown

something like me, but taller and more gentlemanly. Ah, that was his

ruin, wanting to be a gentleman! Well, if you do meet him, George,'

and the old man took George's hand and pressed it hard, and twined his

fingers with George's nervously; 'if you do, give him--my--my love,

George--my dear love--and tell him to write to me, and that his old

father forgives him, George--that he forgives him! And tell him about

you and Bessie, and how beautiful Bessie has grown, and how she's fit

to be a Princess'----Old Ben broke down here, and George put his arm

round the old man's neck, and patted him on the back, and said, 'Yes,

yes, Mr. Sparrow, I understand, I understand. I'll do all that you

wish and in the way that you wish. And now that I know, I'll look out

for him. What part of Australia do you think he's in?'

'I don't know, George; but Australia can't be very large. I've done

right to tell you, George, haven't I?'

'Yes, quite right.'

With that, they went into the house, and joined the party in the

parlour. It was not a very merry one, and the conversation chiefly

consisted of tender reminiscences and hopeful anticipation. George

tried to be gay, but broke down, and if it had not been for old Ben

Sparrow chirruping out a line of 'Cheer, boys, cheer, there's wealth

for honest labour,' now and then, it would have been difficult to keep

matters going. But a diversion was occasioned in the course of the

evening by the arrival of young Mr. Million, who came in to shake

hands with George, he said, and to wish him good-bye. George was

sitting in the corner, with Tottie on his knee; the child was in a

state of repletion, having feasted her full on the pleasures of the

table, and was curled up in George's arms, feeling very sleepy.

Bessie, sitting next to George (he had a spare arm for her waist,

Tottie notwithstanding), cast strangely disturbed glances at her lover

and the child, and her heart was bleeding from the wound inflicted

upon it by what she had heard that afternoon. Every time George

stooped and kissed Tottie, Bessie's wound opened, and she was almost

distracted with doubt and grief and love. Young Mr. Million was very

sunny and bright--a sunbeam lighting up the sad clouds. He gave just a

glance at the earrings in Bessie's ears, and Bessie blushed as she

rose to allow George to shake hands with him. No one saw the glance

but Mrs. Naldret, and she looked gravely at Bessie. Young Mr. Million

was profuse in his good wishes for George; he wished the young man all

sorts of luck, and hoped he would soon be back. Every one was

gratified at the heartiness with which young Mr. Million expressed his

good wishes--every one but Mrs. Naldret; but then nothing seemed to

please her to-night.

'I must drink your health, George,' said the young brewer.

Ben Sparrow asked him with a grand air whether he would take sherry

wine or port, and he chose sherry, and said that Miss Sparrow should

fill his glass for him. Bessie filled his glass and handed it to him

with a bright flame in her cheeks; her hand shook, too, and a few

drops of the wine were spilt upon the table, which young Mr. Million

said gaily was a good omen.

'And here's good luck to you, George, and a prosperous voyage,' he

said, and shook hands with George and wished him good-bye, and shook

hands also with all in the room. Old Ben Sparrow looked at him very

anxiously, and when the young prince with a quietly significant glance

at the old man, proposed that Miss Sparrow should open the shop-door

for him, Ben said, 'Yes, yes, certainly, sir,' and almost pushed

Bessie into the shop. Now what made Mrs. Naldret open the

parlour-door, and seat herself so that she could see the shop-door? It

may have been done unconsciously, but certain it is that, seeing

something pass between young Mr. Million and Bessie as they shook

hands at the shop-door, she gave a sudden cry, as if overtaken by a

spasm. Bessie ran in at the cry, and then Mrs. Naldret saw in one

quick flash, what no one else saw (for Bessie slipped it into her

pocket), a letter in Bessie's hand! The matron said it was nothing,

merely a stitch in her side; and turned from the maid to her son,

around whose neck she threw her arms, and kissed him again and again.

'Why, mother!' exclaimed George, for Mrs. Naldret was beginning to sob

convulsively. 'Come, bear up, there's a dear soul! or we shall all be

as bad as you!'

Mrs. Naldret repressed her sobs, and pressed him closer to her

faithful breast, and whispered,

'Ah, George, there are a many women in the world for you, but there's

only one mother!'

He whispered back to her, 'There's only one woman in the world for me,

and that's my darling Bessie; and there is only one other who is as

good as she is, and that's the mother I hold in my arms.'

And all she could reply to this was, 'O, George, George! O, my dear,

dear boy!' with a world of love and pity in her voice.

And so the sad evening passed away, until George said, Hadn't father

and mother better go home? He would soon be with them. They knew that

he wanted to say good-bye to Bessie, who sat pale and tearful, with

her hand in his; and they rose to go, saying he would find them up

when he came home.

'I know that, dear mother and father,' he said, and went with them to

the door, and kissed them, and came back with the tears running down

his face.

'I'll tell you what, George,' whispered old Ben Sparrow in George's

ear. 'You shall say good-bye to Tottie and me, and we'll go to bed;

and then you'll have Bessie all to yourself. But don't keep too long,

my dear boy, don't keep too long.'

Tottie had been fast asleep for more than an hour, and George took her

in his arms without waking her.

'Good-bye, Tottie,' he said; 'good-bye, little one!' He kissed her

many times, and the child, stirred by his caresses, raised her pretty

little hand to his face. He kissed her fingers, and then resigned her

to old Ben, who, with his burden in his arms, grasped George's hand

tight, and bade him good-bye and God speed.

'And don't forget, George,' he said, with a secret look towards

Bessie.

'No, Mr. Sparrow,' George replied, 'I'll bear in mind what you told

me.'

'God bless you, then, and speed you back!'

With this the old man ascended the stairs, with Tottie in his arms,

turning over his shoulder to give George a parting look, and humming

'Cheer, boys, cheer!' softly, to keep up the spirit of the lovers.

They had listened with a kind of strained attention to the old man's

voice, and when it was hushed, and silence fell upon them, George

turned to Bessie, and in an instant she was in his arms, lying on his

breast. A long silence followed. George heard Bessie's heart beat

plainer than the tick of the old-fashioned clock, which stood like a

ghost in a corner of the room. Not another sound could be heard but

the ticking of the old clock and the beating of their hearts. As

Bessie lay in her lover's arms, she thought whether it would be

generous in her to question him about Tottie. The very asking of the

question would imply a doubt. A voice whispered to her, 'Trust him;

perfect love means perfect confidence.' But the woman's words were

present to her also; and George was paying for the child. She would

not admit the thought of anything dishonourable in George; but the

sting of the doubt was in her. Would it not be better for her to ask a

simple question, which George could easily answer, than to be

tormented with doubt during the long months he would be away from her?

Would it not be simple justice to Tottie? for if she were not

satisfied, she might grow to hate the child. And Bessie really loved

the pretty little forsaken one. The maternal instinct was in her, like

the seedling of a flower in the ground, waiting for the summer-time to

ripen it into the perfect beauty of motherly love. She loved children.

And here, a word. Whether out of place or not, it must be written.

Trust not that woman who has no love for little ones. She is unworthy

of love.

How long the lovers remained silent they did not know. But the time

flew all too swiftly, for the solemn tongue of Westminster proclaimed

the hour. Each clang was like a knell. It was midnight.

Midnight! What solemn reflections arise at such a moment, if the mind

be attuned to them! If the world were spread before us like a map,

what varied emotion and feeling, what unworthy striving, what

unmerited suffering, what new lives born to pain, what old lives dying

out in it, what thoughts dark and bright, what flowers of tender love,

what weeds of ruthless circumstance, what souls born in the mire and

kept there, what hope, what remorse, what sounds of woe and pleasant

fountain-voices with sparkles in them, what angel-lights and divine

touches of compassion, would, in the brief space occupied by the

striking of the hour, there be displayed! And so that bell may toll,

night after night, for generation after generation, until a time shall

come--say in a hundred years--when every human pulse that at this

moment beats throughout the world, when every heart that thrills and

thirsts, when every vainful mortal that struts and boasts and makes

grand schemes for self's exaltment, shall lie dead in earth and sea!

Such thoughts should make us humble.

The bell awoke the lovers from their dream, and they spoke in low

tones of the future and the hopes that lay in it for them.

'When I come back with a little bit of money, my darling,' said

George, 'I shall be content to settle down to my trade, and we shall

jog along as happy as can be. We couldn't settle down without pots and

pans, and these I am going away to earn. I can see our little home,

with you sitting by the fireside, or waiting at the door for me to

give me a kiss when my day's work is done. Then I shall come round to

mother's old way, with her bread-and-cheese and kisses. That will be

good enough for me, my darling, with you to give me the kisses.'

And he gave and took an earnest of them there and then.

So they talked of one thing and another until One o'clock was tolled

by the Westminster bell, and during all that time Bessie had not found

courage to speak of what was in her mind. George had noticed the

ear-rings in Bessie's ears, but had not spoken of them, thinking that

Bessie would have drawn his attention to them. But Bessie's wound was

too fresh; the pain and bewilderment of it were all engrossing. She

had no thought for anything else.

'And now I must go, my darling,' said George, as they stood by the

shop-door; 'for mother and father are waiting for me.' He took her

face between his hands and kissed her lips. 'One kiss for hope; one

for faith; and one for love.'

Bessie raised her face again to his, and whispered as she kissed,

'And one for confidence.'

'And one for confidence,' he repeated, as heartily as his sadness

would allow.

'There should be no secrets between us, George dear.'

'Certainly there should not be, darling,' he replied, 'though you've

been keeping one from me all the night, you puss!'

'I, George!'

'Yes, you, dearest. You have never told me who gave you those pretty

ear-rings.'

Upon such slight threads often do our dearest hopes hang! Bessie,

yielding to the weak impulse, to play off confidence for confidence,

said,

'Never mind those, George. I want to ask you something first.'

At this moment the sound of music came to them, and the waits

commenced to play the dear old air of 'Home, sweet home.'

'That's Saul's doing,' thought George. 'Good fellow! What will become

of him during the time I am away?' As he and Bessie stood linked in a

close embrace, the soft strains floated through the air into their

hearts.

'There shall be no secrets between us, George, in our own home, sweet

home!'

'None, darling.'

'And you'll not be angry with me for saying something?'

'What can my dear girl say to make me angry? and at such a time!'

'Then tell me, George--about Tottie.'

'The dear little thing! What about her, dearest?'

'George, is she an orphan?'

How long seemed the interval before he replied! Tick--tick--tick--went

the clock, so slowly! O, so slowly, now!

'No, Bessie.'

How strangely his voice sounded! But he held her closer to him, and

she had no power to free herself from his embrace. Indeed, she would

have fallen had he loosed her.

'Do not be angry with me, George,' she whispered, slowly and

painfully. 'She has a father living?'

Another long, long pause, and then, 'Yes,' from George, in the same

strange tone.

'Tell me his name, George.'

He held her from him suddenly, and with his hands upon her shoulders,

looked her steadily in the face. But her eyes drooped in the light of

his earnest gaze.

'I cannot, Bessie,' he said; 'I must not. When we are married I will

tell you all. There shall be no secrets between us in our home, sweet

home. Till then, be satisfied.'

Softer came the dear old air to Bessie's ears. But the tenderer

meaning in it was gone for her. She turned from her lover petulantly.

'I did not think you would refuse me this, George.'

Wiser, stronger, than she, he said,

'Do not let this trivial matter come between us, my dear;' and would

have taken her to his heart again, but she did not meet him as before.

'This trivial matter!' Was he so lost to honour and to love for her?

Something of her mind he saw in her face, and it made his blood hot.

'Good God,' he thought, 'is it possible she suspects me?' Then he

strove to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She said but

little now; but her face was white with misery; doubt tore at the

wound in her heart. She knew the pain she was inflicting upon him by

the pain she felt herself. But she could not yield; she could not say,

'I know you are true to me. I will be satisfied, and will wait.' So

his efforts were vain, and two o'clock struck, and their agony was not

over. The tolling of the bell, however, brought to him the picture of

his father and mother waiting up at home for him. 'I _must_ go,' he

said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, dear Bessie, and God bless you! Trust to

me, and believe that no girl ever had more faithful lover.'

In spite of her coldness, he pressed her close to his breast, and

whispered assurances of his love and faithfulness. Then tore himself

away, and left her almost fainting in the shop, love and doubt

fighting a sickening battle in her heart.

YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER, ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OF THE

WORLD IS FALSE.

The night was very cold, and George felt the keen wind a relief. He

took off his hat, and looked around. The street was still and quiet;

the last strains of 'Home, sweet home,' had been played, and the

players had departed. All but one, and he waited at the end of the

street for George to come up to him.

'What, Saul!'

'George!'

[Illustration]

They clasped hands.

'I am glad you are here, Saul. I should not have liked to go without

wishing you good-bye.'

'I waited for you, George. I knew you were in there. Mother and father

sitting up for you, I suppose?'

'Yes. In a few hours I shall go from here; then I shall be alone!'

'As I am, George.'

'Nay, Saul, you have Jane.'

'She has left me, dear woman. I may never see her face again. It is

for my good, George, that she has done this. You do not know how low

we have sunk. George,' and here his voice fell to a whisper, 'at times

we have been almost starving! It could not go on like this, and she

has left me, and taken service somewhere in the country. She has done

right. As I suffer, as I stretch out my arms in vain for her, as I

look round the walls of my garret and am desolate in the light of my

misery, I feel and confess she has done right. Here is her letter.

Come to the lamp; there is light enough to read it by.'

George read the letter, and returned it to Saul, saying, 'Yes, she is

right. What do you intend to do?'

'God knows. To try if I can see any way. But all is dark before me

now, George.'

'I wish I could help you, Saul.'

'I know, I know. You are my only friend. If it ever be in my power to

repay you for what you have done----' He dashed the tears from his

eyes, and stood silent for a few moments, holding George's hand in

his. 'George,' he said, in unsteady tones, 'in times gone by you and I

have had many good conversations; we passed happy hours together.

Words that have passed between us are in my mind now.'

'In mine too, Saul.'

'We had once,' continued Saul in the same strange unsteady tones, 'a

conversation on friendship. I remember it well, and the night on which

it took place. We walked up and down Westminster-bridge, and stopped

now and then, gazing at the lights on the water. There is something

grand and solemn in that sight, George; I do not know why, but it

always brings to my mind a dim idea of death and immortality. The

lights stretch out and out, smaller and smaller, until not a glimmer

can be seen; darkness succeeds them as death does life. But the lights

are there, George, although our vision is too limited to see them. You

remember that conversation, George?'

'As if it had taken place this night, Saul. I can see the lights, and

the darkness that follows them.'

'We agreed then upon the quality of friendship, but gave utterance to

many generalities.' Saul paused awhile, and then said slowly, 'I am

considering, George, whether I rightly understand the duties that lie

in friendship.'

'Faithfulness, trustfulness.'

'Yes, those; and other things as well. Say that you had a friend, and

had learnt something, had seen something, of which he is ignorant, and

which he should know; say it is something that you would keep from

your friend if you were false instead of true to him----'

'I should be a traitor to friendship,' interrupted George warmly, 'if

I kept it from him. If I were truly his friend, I should seek him out

and say what I had learnt, what I had seen.'

'Even if it contained pain, George; even if it would hurt him to

know?'

'Even if it contained pain; even if it would hurt him to know. There

is often pain in friendship; there is often pain in love. You have

felt this, Saul, yourself. I have too, dear friend! Often into life's

sweetness and tenderness pain creeps, and we do not know how it got

there.'

George uttered this in a gentle tone; he was thinking of Bessie.

'Come, friend,' he said, seeing that Saul hesitated to speak, 'you

have something to tell your friend. If you are true to him, tell it.'

Thus urged, Saul said: 'First answer me this. When did you first think

of emigrating?'

'I did not think of it at all, before it was put in my head.'

'By whom?'

'By young Mr. Million. One night, not very long ago now, he met me,

and got into conversation with me. Trade had been a little slack, and

I had had a few idle days. This made me fret, for I saw that if things

went on in the same way it might be years before I could save enough

to buy furniture to make a home for Bessie. I let this out in

conversation with young Mr. Million, and he sympathised with me, and

said it was a shame, but that if he were in my place he would put

himself in a position to marry his sweetheart in less than a year.

How? I asked. By emigrating, he said. It staggered me, as you may

guess, Saul. The idea of going away had never entered my head. He went

on to say that his father took a great interest in working men, and

was very interested also in emigration; that only that morning his

father had mentioned my name and had said that he had a passage ticket

for the very ship that is going out of the Mersey to-morrow, Saul--and

that if I had a mind to better myself, he would give the ticket to me.

I thanked him, and told him I would think of it. Well, I _did_ think

of it, and I read about wages over the water, and saw that I could do

what he said. He gave me the ticket, and that's how it came about.'

'George,' said Saul pityingly, for things that were at present dark to

George seemed clear to him, 'Mr. Million never heard your name until

this morning.'

'Stop!' exclaimed George, passing his hand over his eyes with a

bewildered air. 'Speak slowly. I don't know that I understand you. Say

that again.'

Saul repeated: 'Mr. Million never heard your name until this morning.

I went to his house, thinking that as he had helped you, he might help

me; and he scoffed at me, and taunted me bitterly. He had no more to

do with getting your ticket than I had. Every word young Mr. Million

told you about the passage and about his father was false.'

'Good God!' cried George. 'What could be his motive, then, in telling

me these things, and in obtaining this passage ticket for me?'

'Think, George,' said Saul; 'there is such a thing as false kindness.

He _may_ have a motive in wishing you away. I could say more, but I

cannot bring my tongue to utter it.'

'You must, Saul, you must!' cried George, in a voice that rang through

the street. They had walked as they conversed, and they were now

standing outside his mother's house. 'You must! By the friendship I

have borne for you! By the memory of what I have done for you!' The

door of his house was opened as he spoke. His mother had heard his

voice, and the agony in it, and came to the door. George saw her

standing there, looking anxiously towards him, and he said in a voice

thick with pain, 'Stay here until I come out. By the love you bear to

Jane, stop until I come. My mother will know--she is far-seeing, and I

may have been blind.'

He hurried to his mother, and went into the house with her. For full

half an hour Saul waited in suspense, and at the end of that time

George came out of the house, staggering like a drunken man. Saul

caught him, and held him up. His face was as the face of death; a

strong agony dwelt in it.

'I have heard something,' he said, in a tone that trembled with

passion and pain and weakness. 'My mother has doubted for a long time

past. She took a letter from him secretly to-night! Those earrings she

wore he gave her. O, my God! Tell me, you, what more you know! By the

memory of all you hold dear, tell me!'

'George, my dear,' said Saul, in a broken voice, 'a few moments after

I quitted Mr. Million's house, I saw her enter it.'

A long, long silence followed. The stars and the moon shone brightly,

but there was no light in the heavens for George. A sob broke from

him, and another, and another.

'For God's sake,' exclaimed Saul, 'for your mother's sake, who suffers

now a grief as keen as yours, bear up! Dear friend, if I could lay

down my life for you, I would!'

'I know it. You alone, and my mother, are true; all the rest of the

world is false! He wished to get rid of me, did he, and this was a

trap! The false lying dog! But when I meet him!---- See here! Here is

the ticket he gave me. If I had him before me now, I would do to him

as I do to this----'

He crumpled the paper in his hand, and tore it fiercely in twain. Saul

caught his arm, and stayed its destruction.

'No, no, George!' he cried, but his cry was like a whisper. 'Don't

destroy it! Give it, O, give it to me! Remember the letter that Jane

wrote to me. Think of the future that is open to me, to her, unless I

can see a way. The way is here! Here is my salvation! Let me go

instead of you!' He fell upon his knee's and raised his hands

tremblingly, as if the Death-Angel were before him, and he was not

prepared. 'If I live, I will repay you, so help me, the Great God!'

George muttered, 'Take it. For me it is useless. May it bring you the

happiness that I have lost!'

Saul kissed his friend's hand, which fell from his grasp. When he

looked up, his friend was gone. And the light in the heavens that

George could not see, shone on the face of the kneeling man.