Lizzie was a peculiar girl. She had, indeed, permitted Kenneth to visit her as a lover; but she resolutely refused to accept him as long as his father continued adverse to the union. The moment, however, that she heard of his being cast off and disinherited, she agreed, with tears in her eyes, to marry him whenever he pleased.

But to return from this digression: the new secretary of the Sailors' Home of Wreckumoft became the guardian spirit of the place. He advised all the arrangements which the Board made. He drew up all the rules that the Board fixed.

An "Address" which he issued to officers and seamen frequenting the port of Wreckumoft, wound up with the following words:

"The Directors of the Sailors' Home are anxious that seamen should clearly understand that the institution was designed for their sole benefit, and established with the view of protecting them from the systematic extortion of crimps and other snares, to which their circumstances and calling render them peculiarly liable; and, above all, to promote their moral elevation, social improvement, and religious instruction. The rules by which the institution is governed are, as far as practicable, adapted to meet the habits of all who participate in its benefits, and to further their best interests. It is conducted on principles of order, comfort, and liberality; and no restraint is exercised beyond that which common prudence and mutual interest require. In the 'Home' thus provided; which embraces security, freedom of action, and social enjoyment, the Directors desire to create and sustain mutual sympathy, trust, and good-will, and to employ those agencies which tend most to mature habits of frugality, self-respect, and the love of God."

Immediately after the appearance of this address, seamen flocked to the "Home" for lodgings, and those who did so found the place so uncommonly pleasant that they brought their messmates, so that for months afterwards not only was every bed taken, but the very stairs and landings of the building were occupied by men who preferred to sleep there, and enjoy the advantages of the Institution, rather than go back to the dens which they had frequented in former days.

On the night when Billy went to the Home it was very full, and he stumbled over more than one recumbent seaman on the landings before he reached the hall, where, late though it was, a number of men were playing chess, draughts, and bagatelle, or reading books and papers. Here he found Haco Barepoles, as rugged as ever, seated by the fire and deeply engaged in a copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress."

"Wonderful book; wonderful book!" exclaimed Haco, laying the volume on the table and scratching his head, as if to stir up the brain inside. Just then Billy came up.

"Hallo, Haco!"

"Hallo, stranger! You've the advantage of me, lad, for I don't know ye."

"Yes, ye do."

"Eh! do I? Let me see."

Here the mad skipper scrutinised the lad's face earnestly.

"Well, I have seen ye afore now, but you've 'scaped from me, youngster."

"I'm Billy, alias the Bu'ster, alias the Cork, alias Gaff—"

"What, Billy Gaff? Dead and come alive again!" cried Haco, springing up and seizing the youngster's hand.

Having wrung Billy's arm almost off his shoulder, Haco took him up to his berth, where he made him sit down on the bed and recount all his and his father's adventures from beginning to end.

When Billy had concluded the narrative, which of course he gave only in brief outline, Haco said—

"Now, lad, you and I shall go have a pipe outside, and then we'll turn in."

"Very good; but I have not yet asked you about your daughter Susan. Is she still with Captain Bingley?"

"Ay, still with him, and well," replied Haco, with a look that did not convey the idea of satisfaction.

"Not goin' to get married?" inquired Billy with caution.

Haco snorted, then he grunted, and then he said—

"Yes, she was goin' to get married, and he wished she wasn't, that was all."

"Who to?" inquired the other.

"Why, to that Irish scoundrel Dan Horsey, to be sure," said Haco with a huge sigh of resignation, which, coming from any other man, would have been regarded as a groan. "The fact is, lad, that poor Susan's heart is set upon that fellow, an' so it's no use resistin' them no longer. Besides, the blackguard is well spoken of by his master, who's a trump. Moreover, I made a kind o' half promise long ago that I'd not oppose them, to that scapegrace young Lieutenant Bingley, who's on his way home from China just now. An' so it's a-goin' to be; an' they've set their hearts on havin' the weddin' same week as the weddin' o' Master Kenneth and Lizzie Gordon; so the fact is they may all marry each other, through other, down the middle and up again, for all I care, 'cause I'm a-goin' on a whalin' voyage to Novy Zembly or Kumskatchkie—anywheres to git peace o' mind—there!"

Saying this Haco dashed the ashes out of his big German pipe into his left palm, and scattered them to the winds.

"Now, lad," he said, in conclusion, "we'll go turn in, and you'll sleep with me to-night, for ye couldn't get a bed in the Home for love or money, seein' that it's choke full already. Come along."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

FAILURES AND HOPES DEFERRED, AND CONSEQUENCES.

Now, it chanced that, about the time of which I write, a noted bank failed, and a considerable sum of money which had been temporarily deposited in it by the committee of the Sailors' Home at Wreckumoft was lost.

This necessitated retrenchment. All the salaries of officials were lowered—among them Kenneth's, although the directors assured him that it would be again raised as soon as the Institution recovered from the shock of this loss.

Meanwhile, however, the secretary was compelled to postpone his marriage indefinitely.

Perhaps the shortest way to convey a correct idea of the dire effects of this failure to my reader will be to detail several conversations that took place in regard to it by various parties.

Conversation first was held between the head cook and head waiter of the Sailors' Home. These worthies were seated on one of the dressers in the kitchen of the establishment;—and a wonderful kitchen it was, with culinary implements so huge as to suggest the idea of giant operators. There was a grate that might have roasted an ox whole. There were pots big enough to have boiled entire sheep, caldrons of soup that a little boy might have swum in, rolls and loaves that would, apparently, have made sandwiches for an army, and cups and saucers, plates and dishes that might have set up any reasonable man for life in the crockery line. But the most astounding vessels in that amazing place were the tea-pot and coffee-pot of the establishment. They stood side by side like giant twins; each being five feet high by a yard in diameter, and the pounds of tea and gallons of water put into these pots night and morning for tea and breakfast seemed almost fabulous. (See note 1.)

"It's werry unfortinet, werry," said the presiding spirit of this region.

"So 'tis," observed the head waiter.

"Werry hard, too," said the cook, "on a man like me, with a wife and six childer, to have his wages docked."

"So 'tis—even for a man with a wife and four child'n like me," said the head waiter; "but it comes hardest on the secretary, poor feller. He was just a-goin' to get spliced, an' there he's 'bliged to put it off. He's such a good feller too."

"Ah—it's werry hard," said the cook.

"Werry," said the head waiter.

Having shaken their heads in concert, these worthies dropped the subject as being an unpleasant one.

In Mr Stuart's drawing-room, referring to the same subject, Miss Penelope Stuart said to Mr George Stuart—

"Well, I'm sure, George, it seems to me that it would be only right and proper to forgive poor Kenneth, not that he's done anything exactly wrong, but forgiveness is a Christian duty, whether it's an enemy you've hurt, or a friend who has hurt you, that—that, how could he help it, you know, brother, now do be reasonable, and only think of the poor boy having to part with that great cart-horse—though it'll be the death of him some day whether he parts with it or not, for it's a dreadful creature, and Dan too—I'm sure the perplexities people are put to by banks failing. Why don't people prevent them from failing? But the worst is his marriage being put off, and it so near. I do think, brother, you might take him back and—"

"Pray hold your tongue, Peppy," said Mr Stuart, who was attempting to read the Times, "I'm not listening to you, and if you are pleading for my son Kenneth, let me say to you, once for all, that I have done with him for ever. I would not give him a sixpence if he were starving."

"Well, but," persevered the earnest Miss Peppy, "if he were to repent, you know, and come and ask pardon, (dear me, where are those scissors? ah, here they are), surely you would not refuse, (the thimble next—what a world of worries!) to—to give him—"

"Peppy, I have stated my sentiments, pray do not trouble me further in regard to this matter. Nothing can move me."

Miss Peppy sighed, and retired to pour her regrets into the sympathetic ear of Mrs Niven.

Gaff sat in the chimney-corner of the "Boodwar" smoking his pipe and staring at Shrieky, which, having survived the voyage home, had been hung up in a cage in the little window, and was at that time engaged in calling loudly for Squeaky, who, having also survived the voyage, was grubbing up stones and mud at the front door. Mrs Gaff was seated opposite to him, with Tottie's head in her lap; for she still solaced herself by smoothing her hair. Billy was sitting on one of the six chairs whittling a piece of wood.

"It's a bad business," said Gaff; "bad for everybody consarned; but wust for Mr Stuart."

"An' his man," said Billy.

"And Susan," said Tottie.

"Gaff," said Mrs Gaff, "it's my advice to you to go up to the bank, ask them for a thousand pounds, (if they have as much in the shop at the time, if not, ye can take what they have, and call again for the rest), give it all to Miss Lizzie Gordon, and tell her to go and get married right off. We won't miss it, Gaff. In fact it seems to me that the more we give away the more we have to give. It's an awful big fortin' we've comed into. But that's what I advise."

"I doubt she wouldn't take it," said Gaff.

"Oh yes, she would," cried his better half.

Billy and Tottie being of the same opinion, Gaff laid aside his pipe, got out the tea-caddy, from which he took his cheque-book, and made Tottie write out a cheque for 1000 pounds, payable to Miss Lizzie Gordon.

"She deserves it well o' me," observed Gaff, as he slowly printed his signature on the cheque, "for she gave me the Noo Testament, that's bin o' more valley to me than thousands o' gold an' silver—God bless her."

The cheque was taken up and presented by Gaff on the following morning, but to the honest man's dismay, Lizzie declined it positively, though she accompanied her refusal with many earnest expressions of gratitude, and kissed the seaman's hard hand at parting.

Gaff returned to the "Boodwar," lit his German pipe with the cheque, and said, "I knowed she wouldn't tak' it—dear girl."

Kenneth was standing in the bower at the foot of my garden, looking pensively on the distant landscape, which was bathed in the rich glow of the setting sun. His right arm embraced the slender waist of Lizzie— his left encircled the shoulder of Emmie Graham.

"We must have patience, darling," said Kenneth, with an effort at cheerfulness.

"Our hopes were as bright as that lovely sky some days ago," said Lizzie.

While she was speaking the sun descended behind a bank of heavy clouds.

"And thus have our hopes gone down," murmured Kenneth sadly.

"But, uncle," observed Emmie, "the sun is still shining behind the clouds."

"Thank you, Emmie, for the comforting word," said Lizzie, "and our sun is indeed shining still."

The trio left off contemplating the sky, and returned in improved spirits to Bingley Hall, where my strong-minded wife had just delivered herself of the following oration:—

"It's of no use talking to me," (she was right; I never found it to be of the least use to talk to her.) "Old Stuart is a monster—nobody will convince me to the contrary. I only wish I had the making of the laws, and I would have powerful cures got up for such as he. And his brother-in-law is no better—Crusty indeed, bad though it is, the name is too good for him. Don't interrupt me. He is not like many of his neighbours, for he has had no provocation. The captain of dragoons has turned out a very good husband, and poor Bella is as happy with him as such a flirt could expect to be."

I ventured to remark at this point that my wife was wandering from the subject from which she started, but she became extremely angry, and finally put me down and snuffed me out by assuring me that I had been born at least a generation before my time.

Dan Horsey sat on the dresser of my kitchen, switching his boot with a riding-whip, and looking at Susan with an extremely melancholy expression of countenance. Susan was cleaning a silver tea-pot—her usual occupation when Dan was present. Cook—now resigned to her fate— was sighing and peeling potatoes in the scullery.

"Och! darlint, me heart's heavier than a cart o' coals," said Dan. "Bucephalus is to be sowld next week, and I'm to quit in a month!"

Susan sighed.

"To be sure, I'd aisy git another place, but in the meantime that'll put off our weddin', jewel, till I don' know when."

Susan sighed again, and Dan hit his boot somewhat smartly, as if he were indignant with Fate.

"But it's wus," continued Dan, "for masther an' Miss Gordon than for us, darlint—there, now, don't toss yer head, mavourneen, ye know we can git spliced av we like whenever I git a noo sitiwation; but masther can't well throw up the wan he's got, an' yit it won't kape him an' his wife. Och! worse luck! Av we could only diskiver a goold mine now, or somethin' o' that sort."

"Well, I am sorry for them," said Susan, with another sigh; "an' I'm sure I hope that we'll get over our troubles, all of us, though I don't see very well how."

"Arrah! now, don't look so blue, me angel," said Dan, rising and putting his arm round Susan. "Me heart is lighter since I comed here and saw yer sweet face. Sure there's midcine in the glance o' yer purty blue eye. Come now, cheer up, an' I'll ventur a prophecy."

"What may that be?" asked Susan with a smile.

"That you and I shall be spliced before two months is out. See if we won't."

Susan laughed; but Dan stoutly asserted that his prophecies always came true, and then, saying that he was the bearer of a letter to Miss Peppy, he bade Susan adieu, and took himself off.

I turn now to Miss Puff, who happened about this time to be on a visit to us. She was seated one forenoon alone in the dining-room of Bingley Hall, when a loud ring came to the door-bell; a quick step was heard on the stair, and next moment the dining-room door burst open, and my son Gildart rushed into the room.

Gildart was wonderfully changed since the day he had sailed for China. He had grown tall and stout. Moreover he had whiskers—not very bushy, perhaps, but, undeniable whiskers.

"Hallo! Puff!" he exclaimed, rushing towards his old friend with the intention of kissing her; but when Miss Puff rose to receive him, he felt constrained to check himself.

"Why, how you are grown, and so changed!" he said, shaking her hand warmly.

Miss Puff was indeed changed, so much so that her old friends who had not seen her for some time could scarcely have known her. She was no longer fat and inane. Her figure had become slim and graceful; her face had become expressive and remarkably pretty, and her manners were those of a well-bred and self-possessed lady. Gildart felt that he could no more have taken the liberties he had ventured on in former years than he could have flown.

He soon became very chatty, however, and speedily began to question her in regard to his father and mother, (who, she told him, were not at home), and old friends.

"And what of my friend Kenneth Stuart?" said he.

"He is well, poor fellow," replied Miss Puff; "but he is in unhappy circumstances just now."

Here she related the circumstances of the bank failure, and the evil consequences that followed, and were still pending over Kenneth and many of their other friends in Wreckumoft.

"That's a sad business," said Gildart; "but I don't see how it can be mended. I fear me it is a case of 'grin and bear it.' And your aunt, Miss Puff, what of the adorable Miss Flouncer?"

"She is now Lady Doles."

"You don't say so! Well, I had given Sir Richard credit for more sense. How long is it since they married?"

"About two years."

"Is Sir Richard dead?"

"No, why should you think so?"

"Because if it had been me, I should have succumbed in three months. It's an awful thing to think of being married to a she-griffin."

"She is my aunt, Mr Bingley," said Miss Puff.

"Ah, to be sure, forgive me. But now I must go and search for my father. Adieu. Miss Puff—au revoir."

Gildart left the room with a strange sensation of emptiness in his breast.

"Why, surely—it cannot be that I—I—am in love with that girl, that stupid, fat—but she's not stupid and not fat now. She's graceful and intelligent and pretty—absolutely beautiful; why, botheration, I am in love or insane, perhaps both!"

Thus soliloquising my son entered my study.

The last conversation that I shall record, took place between Mr Stuart senior and Colonel Crusty. It occurred about two weeks after those conversations that have just been narrated. The colonel had been suddenly summoned to see his brother-in-law, "on his death-bed,"—so the epistle that summoned him had been worded by Miss Peppy.

That dinner at which these two friends had enjoyed themselves so much happened to disagree with Mr George Stuart, insomuch that he was thrown into a bilious fever—turned as yellow as a guinea and as thin as a skeleton. He grew worse and worse. Wealth was at his command—so was everything that wealth can purchase; but although wealth procured the best of doctors in any number that the patient chose to order them, it could not purchase health. So Mr Stuart pined away. The doctors shook their heads and gave him up, recommending him to send for his clergyman.

Mr Stuart scorned the recommendation at first; but as he grew worse he became filled with an undefinable dread, and at last did send for his pastor. As a big cowardly boy at school tyrannises over little boys and scoffs at fear until a bigger than he comes and causes his cheek to blanch, so Mr Stuart bullied and scorned the small troubles of life, and scoffed at the anxieties of religious folk until death came and shook his fist in his face; then he succumbed and trembled, and confessed himself, (to himself), to be a coward. One result of the clergyman's visit was that Mr Stuart sent for Colonel Crusty.

"My dear Stuart," said the colonel, entering the sick man's room and gently taking his wasted hand which lay outside the counterpane, "I am distressed to find you so ill; bless me, how thin you are! But don't lose heart. I am quite sure you have no reason to despond. A man with a constitution like yours can pull through a worse illness than this. Come, cheer up and look at the bright side of things. I have seen men in hospital ten times worse than you are, and get better."

Mr Stuart shook, or rather rolled, his head slowly on the pillow, and said in a weak voice—

"No, colonel, I am dying—at least the doctors say so, and I think they are right."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," returned the colonel kindly, "doctors are often mistaken, and many a man recovers after they have given him up."

"Well, that may be or it may not be," said Mr Stuart with a sudden access of energy, "nevertheless I believe that I am a dying man, and I have sent for you on purpose to tell you that I am an ass—a consummate ass."

"My dear Stuart," remonstrated the colonel, "really, you are taking a very warped view of—"

"I—am—an—ass," repeated the sick man, interrupting his friend; "more than that, you are an ass too, colonel."

The colonel was a very pompous and stately man. He had not been honoured with his true title since he left school, and was therefore a good deal taken aback by the plain-speaking of his friend. He attributed the words, however, to the weak condition of Mr Stuart's mind, and attempted to quiet him, but he would not be quieted.

"No, no, colonel; it's of no use trying to shut our eyes to the fact. You and I have set our hearts on the things of this world, and I have now come to see that the man who does that is a fool."

"My dear fellow," said the colonel soothingly, "it is bodily weakness that induces you to think so. Most people speak thus when they are seriously ill; but they invariably change their opinion when they get well again."

"You are wrong, colonel. I am now convinced that they do not change their opinions. They may change their wills, but their opinions must remain the same. The conclusion which I have now come to has been forced upon me by cool, logical reasoning; and, moreover, it has more than once flashed upon me in the course of my life, but I shut my eyes to it. The approach of death has only opened them to see very clearly what I was more than half aware of before. Do not suppose that I make this confession of my folly to you in order to propitiate the Deity. I do not for a moment expect that the God whom I have neglected all my life can be humbugged in this way. No, I have deliberately cast Him off in time past, and I recognise it as my due that He should cast me off now. It is too late to repent, so I suppose that there is no hope for me."

Mr Stuart paused here a few minutes. The shade of doubt expressed in his last words was occasioned by the recollection of the clergyman's assurance that it was never too late to repent; that the finished work of Jesus Christ, (which leaves nothing for a man to do but to "believe and live"), would avail the sinner at the latest hour.

The colonel sat gazing at his friend in silence. Presently the sick man resumed as though he had not paused:—

"Therefore what I say to you now is not intended as a propitiatory offering, but is the result of clear and calm conviction. Now listen to me, for I feel getting weak. Let me entreat you to forgive your daughter. Will you take that entreaty into earnest consideration? I do not ask you to promise. It is folly to make men promise what they don't want to do. The chances are that they'll break the promise. I only ask you to take this subject into your serious consideration. It is the request of a dying man. Will you grant it?"

The colonel coughed, and looked troubled.

"Colonel," said Mr Stuart, "I have forgiven Kenneth—that is to say, we are reconciled; for I can scarcely be said to forgive one who never offended me. The gladness that has ensued on that reconciliation is worth more to me than all the gold I ever made."

"Stuart," said the colonel, somewhat suddenly, "I'll do what you ask."

"Thank you; you're a good fellow. Squeeze my hand—there now, go away; I'll sleep for a little. Stay, perhaps, I may never waken; if so, farewell. You'll find a fire in the library if you choose to wait till it's over. God bless you."

The sick man turned on his side with a sigh, and fell into a sleep so deep and quiet that the colonel left the room with some uncertainty as to whether his friend were still in the land of the living.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. If the reader would see a somewhat similar kitchen, let him visit the Sailors' Home, Well Street, London Docks.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

CONCLUSION.

Gladness is a source of life. It is probable that the joy which filled Mr Stuart's heart, in consequence of being reconciled to Kenneth, and having induced his brother-in-law to promise to consider the possibility of forgiving Bella, was the cause of a favourable turn in his malady. At all events he did recover, to the surprise of every one, and the utter discomfiture of the doctors who had given him up!

The sentiments which Mr Stuart had expressed when, as was supposed, in a dying state, did not forsake him when he was restored to health, for, whereas in former days all his time, health, and wealth, were dedicated to himself, now they were all devoted to God. Mr Stuart's face, so to speak, had been turned south before his illness; after his illness it was turned north. There was no other change than this. He did not change his nature, nor did he change his pursuits. Even those of them which were sinful were not changed—they were given up. He did not cease to be an irascible man, but he fought against his temper, (which he had never done before), and so became less irascible. He did not give up his profession, but he gave up the evils which he had before permitted to cling to it. He did not cease to make money, but he ceased to hoard it, and devoted the money made to higher ends than heretofore. He did not think of the world and its affairs less, but he thought of his Maker more, and in so doing became a better man of the world than ever! Gloom and asceticism began to forsake him, because the Bible told him to "rejoice evermore." Philanthropy began to grow, because the Bible told him to "look not upon his own things, but upon the things of others." He had always been an energetic man, but he became more so now, because the Bible told him that "whatever his hand found to do, he ought to do it with his might."

In short, Mr Stuart became a converted man, and there was no mystery whatever in his conversion. Great though its effects were, it was simply this,—that the Holy Spirit had enabled him to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.

Many results followed from this change in the old man. One of the first was that Kenneth and Lizzie Gordon were married, Bucephalus was not sold, and Dan Horsey was retained in the service of his young master.

Miss Peppy came out very strong on that occasion of Kenneth's marriage. She laughed, and then she wept, and then, by way of variety, she did both at once. She kissed everybody that came within arm's-length of her, partly because her heart was very full, partly because her tears blinded her, so that she could not easily distinguish who was who. She made an effort once or twice to skip, and really, considering her age and infirmities, the efforts were wonderfully successful. She also sang a little; attempted to whistle, but failed, and talked straight on for several days without cessation, (except when asleep and at meals), the most extraordinary amount of nonsense that ever came from the lips of woman.

True to their resolve, Dan Horsey and Susan Barepoles were married at the end of the same week. And it is worthy of remark that mad Haco danced at their wedding, and by so doing, shook to its foundation the building in which it occurred.

Strange to say, my son, Lieutenant Bingley, arrived from China on the morning of the wedding, so that he had the unexpected pleasure of dancing at it too, and of chaffing Haco on being "done out of his daughter!"

The "Boodwar" was the scene of the festivities at Dan's wedding. It was more; it was also the locality in which the honeymoon was spent. Mrs Gaff had insisted on taking a little jaunt to Ramsgate, with her husband, son, and daughter, in order that she might give up her abode to Dan and Susan, who were favourites with her.

Thus it came to pass that when the festivities of the wedding drew to a close, the bride and bridegroom, instead of leaving their friends, were left by their friends in possession of the "Boodwar."

It now remains for me, reader, to draw this veracious narrative to a close.

My son Gildart married Miss Puff, and ultimately became a commander in the navy. My wife's strength of mind gave way before increasing years, and she finally became as gentle as she was when I first paid my addresses to her!

Emmie Graham became a permanent inmate of Kenneth's home. The shock that she had sustained when Gaff saved her life told upon her constitution so severely that she fell into bad health, but there was a sunny cheerfulness of disposition about her which induced those with whom she came in contact to regard her as a sunbeam. Lady Doles became stronger-minded day by day, and finally reduced Sir Richard to the condition of a mere human machine, with just enough spirit left to enable him to live and do her bidding.

Colonel Crusty forgave Bella, and, as is not infrequently the case in similar circumstances, he and his son-in-law the major, (for he rose to that rank), became bosom friends. When the latter retired on half-pay they all took up their abode in Wreckumoft.

Kenneth retained his old post, for, although independent of its salary, he would not eat the bread of idleness. As Secretary to the Sailors' Home he frequently met me while I was going about in my capacity of honorary agent of the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society.

Billy Gaff went to sea, and ultimately became captain of an East Indiaman, to his mother's unspeakable delight.

Gaff and his wife and Tottie remained in the "Boodwar" for many years. They did not find their fortune too much for them, being guided in the use thereof by the Bible.

In regard to the state of things that had come about, Miss Peppy used to say confidentially, to Mrs Niven, that she never knew anything like it. It beat all the novels she had ever read, not that she had read novels much, although some of them were good as well as bad, but she felt that too many of them were hurtful; of course, she meant if taken immoderately, but people were always taking things so immoderately. How could it be otherwise in a world where surprise was the chronic condition of the mind, and events were always happening in a way that led one to expect that everything would likely turn out in a manner that was most improbable, if not impossible, which she wouldn't wonder at, for it was enough to fill the lower animals themselves with amazement to see the way in which scissors and thimbles and keys worried people whose whole beings ought to be bent on far higher matters—not to mention people being left at other people's doors by people whom one didn't know at the time, but came to know afterwards, as well as—dear! dear! it was of no use talking; for things had gone on so, no doubt, ever since Adam and Eve walked about in Eden, and doubtless things would continue to go on so, more or less, to the end of time.

THE END.