But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table. If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater, pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid significance.

Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this, however, was forgotten now.

"Is that you, Sam? Come in."

Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper feebly, and groaned.

"Moggridge, old man—"

"Sam!"

"What a pair of asses we have been!

"The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.

"I know," nodded Sam; "is it true, d'ye think?"

"My heart forebodes," said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further— "my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal—"

"Pooh!" broke in Sam; "stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I know, but after all I'm the sufferer."

The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him.

"I carried the bag up to Five Lanes; I put the infernal stuff into her very hands; I—"

"You?"

Sam nodded desperately. "She asked me to elope with her—to meet her at Five Lanes."

Mr. Moggridge staggered up to his feet, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket.

"You are mad!" he gasped. "She asked me to elope with her—me to meet her at the top of Troy Hill. Look here!" He held out a crumpled letter. Sam took it, glanced at it, produced an exactly similar note, and handed it to his friend.

They read each the other's letter sentence by sentence, and in doleful antiphon. At the conclusion they looked up, and met each other's gaze; whereat Mr. Moggridge smote his brow and cried—

"False, false!"

While Sam pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and emitted a long breath, as though, his cup being full, he must needs blow off the froth.

"Do you mean to say," he asked, after a pause, "that you helped her to land the stuff?"

"I thought it was Tea."

"And you never examined it?"

"She told me it was Tea."

"Moggridge, you have been given away, as the Yankees put it. I have been sold, which is bad; but you have been 'given away,' which is worse."

"You were sold for 'love,' which is pretty much the same, I take it, as being given away," objected the Poet testily.

"Not at all the same, Moggridge, as being given away—with half a pound of Tea."

Footnote, Chapter XXIII [1] Medicine.



CHAPTER XXIV.

OF THE BEST HELLEBORE; AND AN EXPERIMENT IN THE ENTERTAINMENT OF TWINS.

For three days Mr. Fogo continued to propose. On the evening of the third day the little Doctor shook his head. After this, for about a week, Mr. Fogo proposed and the Doctor shook his head at intervals. Finally, and in the middle of a sentence, the patient fell into a deep slumber.

When he awoke, it was to the conviction that he, Mr. Fogo, being a bolster, had been robbed of his rightful stuffing by some person or persons unknown. He had lain for some time pondering this situation with a growing resentment, when he was aware of some one sitting between him and the sunshine.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Tamsin Dearlove."

The remark made by Diogenes under somewhat like circumstances would have been ungallant. In the process of searching for a better the sick man fell asleep again.

What happened on his next return to consciousness shall be given in his own words. He told me the story last autumn:—

"You see," he explained shyly, "I have not, my dear young friend, that ingenuity of phrase which I so admire in you" (I protest I have not the heart to suppress this tribute), "but seeing that, in such a case, experience counts for something—and naturally, at your age, you have yet to learn what it is to propose to a woman—I think I had better tell you exactly what happened, the more so as it is a matter which, if, as you assure me, necessary to your chronicle, I desire to be related with accuracy. I am not, you understand, in the least reflecting on your love of truth, but, after all, I did, as the obnoxious phrase has it, 'propose' to Tamsin, whereas you—ahem—did not."

I am convinced my friend meant to say "would not have had the infernal impudence," but softened the expression, being habitually careful of the feelings of others.

"When I awoke again," he went on, "she was seated in the window, knitting. I lay for a long while watching her—indeed, this is my first impression—before I made any sign. The sunshine—it was morning—fell on her head as she bent over her needles, and emphasised that peculiar bloom of gold which (you may have noticed) her brown locks possess. Her lashes, too, as they drooped upon a cheek pale (as I could perceive) beyond its wont, had a glimmer of the same golden tint. Altogether I thought her more beautiful than I ever imagined; and to this day," he added in an outburst of confidence, "I frequently decoy her to a seat in the sunlight, that I may taste a renewal of the sensations I enjoyed that morning. Some day, perhaps, you will be better able to sympathise with this caprice.

"I had been lying thus for some time, luxuriously drinking in her loveliness, when her eyes lifted and met mine. And then—well, I can hardly tell you what happened then, except that I do not believe a word was spoken on either side. I suppose our eyes had told enough. Anyhow, the next thing I remember is that my dear girl's head was on my breast, and one arm flung across the pillow that supported my head. I have a dim recollection, too, of trying to smooth her hair, and finding my strength too feeble even for that. That is all, I think; except that we were ludicrously happy, of course—Tamsin smiling with moist eyes, while I lay still and let the joy of it trickle in my veins. I am extremely obliged to you, my dear young friend, for not laughing outright at this confession. It encourages me to add, for exactness, that Tamsin kept putting her hand up to the back of her head. She has since explained that she felt sure her 'back-hair' was coming down. Women are curious creatures.

"Let me resume. In the midst of what used to be called a 'love passage,' the door opened, and in walked Peter Dearlove with a basin of beef-tea. So quietly did he enter, that the first announcement of his presence was a terrific sound which my experience can compare with nothing unless it be whooping-cough—the whooping-cough of a robust adult.

"'This,' he remarked, setting down the tray and eyeing Tamsin severely, 'ain't nussin' properly so called.'

"I do not think we made any answer to this.

"'Ef a name es to be found for 't, 'tain't so much 'nussin'' as 'goin's on.''

"'Your sister has promised to be my wife,' I ventured.

"'Beggin' your pard'n, sir, but the Catechism has summat to say to that.'

"'The Catechism?'

"'Iss, sir—'that stashun o' life.' An' not a word 'bout raisin' et, even by th' use o' globes—which some considers unekalled.'

"I put out my hand to cover Tamsin's, and looked up into her face before I answered him with some heat—

"'I won't affect to misunderstand you. You mean that I am marrying beneath me?'

"He hesitated.

"'There's two meanin's to 'beneath''

"'Ah!' I cried, 'I am glad you see that.'

"He looked at me slowly and continued—

"'Second p'int. Not so long agone you was talkin' of a Geraldin."

"I glanced at Tamsin again and comprehended.

"'I have been talking—?'

"She nodded.

"'And you know it all—the whole story?'

"She nodded again, with a world of healing pity in her eyes. Then, with a swift glance at her brother, she stooped and kissed me.

"'Oh!' said Peter, very shortly; 'I'm thinkin' I'd best see Paul 'bout this;' and with that he disappeared.

"Whereupon," concluded Mr. Fogo, "I think I must have dropped asleep again, for I remember nothing after this—at least, nothing that is worth mention."

It is quite true that Mr. Fogo dropped asleep. He slept, moreover, for a considerable time, and awoke to find Caleb seated beside the bed.

"Where is Tam—Miss Dearlove?" he asked.

"There ain't no Dearlove, as I knaws by, called Tammis. The males was chris'n'd Peter an' Paul, the female Thomasina: an' they'm gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone, an' left we like Hocken's duck, wi'out mate or fellow."

"How long?"

"Matter o' five hour'."

There was a long silence.

"Caleb!"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"How long do you think it will be before I can get about—be fit to go downstairs, I mean?"

"Well, sir, I reckon et depends on yoursel'. Try, an' 'twill come, as the Doctor said when Bill swallered 'arf-a-crown an' wanted to get et up agen by Lady-Day, rent bein' doo."

"Do you think a week would do it?"

"Better say a fortni't, sir."

"What day is it to-day?"

"Thursday."

"Have I been ill for two days?"

"For a fortni't an' two days."

"Bless my soul!"

"Amen, sir."

"Caleb, would you mind writing a letter for me?"

Caleb had no objection; and the composition that followed may be given in full, for works of divided authorship have always possessed an interest of their own from the days of Homer, Homer and Homer downwards:—

"Hond Twins,—"

"Mr. Fogo's complements to the pare of You not forgetting Miss Thomasina and shall be glad if you will all Dine with me at 7 p.m. in the evening precisely on This day (Wensdy) fortunite. You will be glad to heer that I am recuvering fast thanks to your care and kindness which Is his own words and Gospel truth and so No more at present from yours to command"

"P. Fogo, Esq."

"per C. Trotter."

"Knowing whats up with the kitchin range you wont look for much of A dinner."

The answer was brought up by Paul Dearlove early, next morning. It ran:—

"Respectd Sir,—"

"This is thanking you for your kind and welcome letter just recd, and shall be proud to accept of the invitation in the spirit in which it is given you must not mind the kitchin range please as between them that knows all about it having difficulties at times with the beef tea which trusting you will overlook we remain"

"Your obedt servts"

(signed) "Peter Dearlove."

"Paul Dearlove."

"Thomasina has gone into Troy or would have signed too."

To a certain extent this was satisfactory; and Mr. Fogo endeavoured to possess his soul in patience, and recover with all speed. It was weary work at first, but as the sick man really began to mend he found much interest in discussing with Caleb the preparations for the feast.

"We must not be too ambitious, Caleb. Let the fare be simple— 'Persicos odi, puer, apparatus'—as long as it is well cooked and neatly served."

"I dunno what you means by 'pure apparatus,'" answered Caleb. "There's a flaw in the range, as you knaw; but 'tes so clane as scrubbin' 'll make et."

And, indeed, when the evening arrived with the mellow twilight of July, and the Twins with a double knock, the arrangement of the table, as well as the smell of cooking which pervaded the front hall, did Caleb all credit. The dining-room was bare alike of carpet and pictures, but the floor had been scoured until the boards glistened whitely; and two red ensigns, borrowed by Caleb from the British mercantile marine, served to hide certain defects in the wallpaper.

Here Mr. Fogo sat awaiting his guests; for the preparation of the drawing-room would have overtaxed Caleb's resources.

"Miss Thomasina Dearlove, and Messrs. Peter and Paul ditto!"

Mr. Fogo arose with a flush on his wasted cheek, held Tamsin's hand for a moment, and then, bending, kissed it with grave courtesy. She had removed her hat and cloak in the passage, and now stood before him in a plain white frock—short-waisted, and of antique make, perhaps, but little the worse for that. She wore no ornament but a red rose on her bosom; and if, as I do not believe, a shade of apprehension had troubled Mr. Fogo, it would have taken flight as she stood before him, challenging his eyes.

But the Twins!

Like the Austrian army, they were "awfully arrayed." So stiff and shiny indeed was their apparel, and such mysterious sounds did the slightest movement draw from their linen, that the beholder grew presently as uneasy as the wearer. Each wore a high stock and a collar that cut the ears. The neck-cloth of Peter was crimson; of Paul, vivid amber. The waistcoats of both bore floral devices in primary colours, and the hands of both were encased in gloves of white cotton.

Mr. Fogo took heart of grace and bade them welcome.

"'Tes a warm evenin'," ventured Paul, rubbing a forefinger round the inside of his collar.

"Uncommon," responded Peter, addressing his brother.

Whereupon, as if by preconcerted signal, they faced about and made for the two most distant chairs, on the edges of which they took an uneasy rest. Peter had brought his hat into the room, and now, after gazing at it reproachfully for some moments, began to stow it away beneath him, doing violence to its brim with the air of one who does not count the cost. He was relieved by Caleb, who bore it off with the pleasant remark—

"Now, then, remember what the old leddy said to make her guests aisy, 'I'm at home, an' I wish you all were.'"

"Silence, Caleb!" said his master. "I—I think, as dinner is ready, we may as well be seated at once. Will you take the head of the table?" he asked, turning to Tamsin.

She blushed faintly and moved to her place. The Twins leapt up, performed a forced march, and took the table in flank from opposite quarters. Mr. Fogo looked around.

"If one of you would say Grace—"

"Tamsin says it at home. I taught her mysel'," said Peter. "Now, then, little maid, 'For what we'm about—'"

She spoke the simple Grace and the company sat down—with the exception of Paul.

Now, Paul's position at table faced the fireplace, and as he raised his head after Grace a large text in red and blue upon the mantelshelf caught his eye, and held him spell-bound.

"'Paice on Earth an' Goodwill to-ward Men!'" he read. "Excuse me, sir, but nothin' more appropriate to the occashun can I imagine. Et does 'ee credit—ef I may say so."

He dropped into his seat, and taking off his gloves laid them beside his glasses. Peter, more ceremonious, retained his throughout the meal.

"I am afraid," explained their host, "that the credit belongs to Caleb, who insisted upon placing the text there; and as he had obtained it with considerable trouble from the Vicar (it was used, I believe, to decorate St. Symphorian's last Christmas), I had not the heart to deny him. But for what are we waiting?"

He was answered by the appearance of Caleb, who marched up to Tamsin with a woeful face, and announced in a loud whisper that "Suthin' was up wi' the soup."

"I think," said she, rising, "if you will let me help—"

"Sutt'nly," assented Peter in a loud tone. "To be sure—that es, beggin' your pard'n, sir," he added apologetically.

"It is very good of you," said Mr. Fogo.

"I should like to help," she explained, and followed Caleb to the kitchen.

Somehow, with her absence, an oppressive silence fell on the three men. Peter coughed at intervals, and once even began a sentence, but stopped halfway. Mr. Fogo did not heed him, but had fallen to drumming softly with his spoon upon the table. A full five minutes passed thus, and then he started to his feet.

"Must you really be going?"

"Eh?"

"It is early yet; but I suppose you have some distance to go?"

"What?"

"Let me, at least, help you on with your coats."

They stared blankly at him. There was a faraway look in his eyes, but his speech was quiet and distinct enough. Like lambs they obeyed, and marched out into the hall.

"I am afraid I am too weak to offer much assistance—"

"Don't 'ee menshun et."

They resumed their coats, and groped for hats and sticks. A deep and awful wonder possessed them both.

"The night is fine," observed their host, as he opened the door: "you will have a pleasant journey home. Good-night!"

He shook them by the hand as they staggered out, shut the door upon them, and returned pensively to the dining-room.

As the door closed behind them, the brothers looked into each other's eyes. Paul gave a short gasp, and leant against a pillar of the verandah.

"Peter!"

"Paul!"

"Wud 'ee mind pinchin' me i' the ca'f o' the leg, jes' to make sure?"

"I was a-goin' to ax the same favour, Paul."

"Well, churchwarden or no churchwarden, I reckon I am damned!"

"What I complains of in this 'ere fash'nubble life," said Peter slowly, "es this—'tes too various—by a sight, too various."

"Arter eatin' next door to nuthin' all day, so's we mou'tn' be behindhand in tacklin' the vittles!"

There was an interval of painful stupor.

"Paul!"

"Peter!"

"I'm reckonin' up what my hunger's wuth at this moment. I dunno as I'd take twenty pund for 't."

Inside the house Mr. Fogo had sunk into an armchair, and was regarding the ceiling with thoughtful attention. He was aroused by steps in the hall, and Tamsin re-entered the room, followed by Caleb with the soup-tureen.

"Hulloa! where's the Twins?"

"Eh?"

"Es this a round game, or a conjurin' trick?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Fogo turned a dull gaze upon him. Caleb set down the tureen with a crash, and rushing up shook his master gently, but firmly, by the collar.

"Where—be—they—Twins?"

"Oh! The Twins? They have gone—gone some five minutes. I saw them out. It's all—Bless my soul, how extraordinary, to be sure!"

Caleb did not wait for the end of the sentence, but darting out, discovered the brothers in the porch, and haled them back.

"I beg your pardon most heartily," said Mr. Fogo, as they appeared; "the fact is—"

"There's no call, sir. I reckon us'll get the grip o't wi' time an' practice; on'y bein' new to the ropes, so to spake—"

Mr. Fogo looked at Tamsin. She broke into a merry laugh.

It snapped the spell. The Twins, who had been waiting on each other for a lead with the first spoonful of soup, set down their spoons and joined in, at first decorously, then with uproar.

"Talk 'bout fun!" gasped Peter at length, with tears in his eyes, "Bill Stickles at the Market Ord'nary can't match et—an' he's reckoned a tip-topper for fun. An' this es fash'n! Well, I never did. Ho, ho, ho!"

From this moment the success of the dinner was assured. All talked, and talked with freedom. The brothers threw off their restraint, and were their natural and well-mannered selves. It is true that Peter would pause now and again to slap his thigh and renew his mirth; it is true also that he continued to wear his white gloves throughout the meal. But he pocketed them when Caleb removed the cloth, and the company fell into more easy postures.

It was late that evening when the Twins consulted their watches and rose to go, and as yet nothing had been said on the subject nearest to Mr. Fogo's heart. He motioned them back to their seats.

"There is still one more question that I must ask you," he said, rising and stepping to Tamsin's side. "You guess what it is?"

"I mou't," admitted Peter slowly.

"I ask you, then, if Tamsin has your leave to make me happy. Knowing what it costs you—"

"No cost, sir, where our little maid's happiness es consarned. Tamsin knaws that, but 't 'as been the harder to talk wi' her as us shud ha' wished, an' that there's no denyin'. Us knawed all along she'd be leavin' us some day, an' oft'n Paul an' me have a-made up each other's mind to 't. I misdoubts, sir—I misdoubts sorely— seein' 'tes you her heart es set to marry—meanin' no offence, sir. But as 'tes set—Tamsin, girl, we'll be goin', I reckon. I'm thinkin' I've a-parted wi' enough o' my heart's blud for wan night."

He moved towards the door, but came back again to shake hands, with a word of self-reproach for his lack of courtesy. Then, with a tenderness almost motherly on his mahogany face—

"Be gentle wi' her," he said. "She's quick to larn—an' takes cold aisy, which, ef seen to early, a little nitre will a'most al'ays pervent. Come 'long, Tamsin."



CHAPTER XXV.

WHICH ENDS THE STORY OF TROY.

The wedding took place in less than two months after Mr. Fogo's dinner-party. A longer interval would have proved, I believe, fatal to both Peter and Paul, who wore themselves thin over small anxieties, from the trousseau to the cake.

Three days before the wedding, for instance, they rowed down to Kit's House and awoke Caleb at 4.30 a.m. by throwing gravel against his window.

"Oh, 'tes you," said Caleb, as he thrust open the lattice; "what's amiss now?"

"We have been considerin' which of us two es to gi'e Tamsin away."

"Toss up."

"We have tossed up—scores o' times."

"Well?"

"The results," said Peter gravely, "es versified."

"What?"

"Otherwise, various. The results es various—inclinin' to Paul."

"Well, let Paul do it."

"Peter es oulder," objected Paul.

"By dree minnits—which don't fairly count," put in Peter.

"Peter," observed Caleb, "looks th' oulder—by full dree minnits."

"Paul went to school afore me," said Peter, "by two days—along o' measles."

"Look 'ere," decided Caleb, "let Paul gi'e her away, an' you, bein' the better spokesman, can propose th' health o' the bride an' bridegroom."

This satisfied them, and so it was arranged at the wedding. I am not going to describe the ceremony—at which I had the privilege of holding my friend's hat—beyond saying that woman, as is usual on these occasions, was a success, and man a dismal failure. There was one exception. When little Susie Clemow, who at Mr. Fogo's express desire was one of the bridesmaids, identified the bridegroom with the strange gentleman who had frightened her in the lane, and burst into loud screams in the middle of the service, I could not sufficiently admire the readiness with which Peter Dearlove produced a packet of brandy-balls from his tail-pocket to comfort her, or the prescience which led him to bring such confectionery to a wedding.

At the breakfast, too, which, owing to the dimensions of the Dearloves' cottage, was perforce select, Peter again shone. In proposing the health of Mr. and Mrs. Fogo, he said—

"On an occasion like the present et becomes us not to repine. These things es sent us for our good" (here he looked doubtfully at the cake), "an' wan man's meat es t'other's p'ison, which I hopes" (severely) "you knawed wi'out my tellin' 'ee; an' I shudn' wonder ef Paul an' me was to draw lots wan o' these fine days as to which o' us shud take the pledge—I means, the plunge—an' go an' scarify hissel' 'pon the high menial altar."

Immense excitement at this point prevailed among certain elderly spinsters present.

"That was a joke," explained the speaker, with a sudden and stony solemnity, "an' I hopes 'twill be tuk in the sperrit in which 'twas meant. An' wi' that I gi'es Tamsin's health an' that o' P. Fogo, Esquire, to whom she has been this day made man an' wife; an' bless them an' their dear offspring!"

At this point he was sitting down when Paul leant across and whispered in his ear.

"You are right, Paul," said the orator—"or offsprings. Bless their dear offspring or offsprings—as the case may be."

And with this he resumed his seat amid frantic applause.

The Twins alone escorted the bride and bridegroom to the railway-station; and with the accident that there befell, the chronicle of Mr. Fogo's adventures may for the present close. While the brothers saw Tamsin to her carriage, and with their white waistcoats and gigantic favours planted awe in the breast of the travelling public, the bridegroom dived into the Booking Office to take the tickets for London; for Mr. and Mrs. Fogo were to spend some days in the Metropolis before crossing the Channel.

Now it so happened that in the Booking Office there hung a gorgeous advertisement of one of the principal Steamship Companies, representing a painted ship, the S.S. Popocatepetl, upon a painted ocean, with a deckload of passengers in all varieties of national and fancy costume. Mr. Fogo, as his eye rested on this company, halted and looked more closely.

"That Highlander," he said, "is out of drawing."

Purse in hand, he paused before the advertisement and slowly yielded to its spell. His eyes grew fixed and glassy: tickets, train, and waiting bride had passed out of his mind. Mr. Fogo's fit was upon him.

Meanwhile the Twins, unconscious of the flight of time, and untutored in the ways of locomotives, were loading their sister with parting advice.

"This 'ere," remarked Peter, pulling a bulky parcel from his pocket, "contains a variety o' useful articles for travellin', which I've a-reckoned up durin' the past week an' meant to hand 'ee at the las' moment. There's a wax candle an' a box o' lucifers for the tunnels, an' a roll o' diach'lum plaister in case o' injury, an' 'Foxe's Book o' Martyrs,' ef you shud tire o' lookin' out at the windey, an' Thorley's-Food-for-Cattle Almanack for the las' thirteen year all done up separate, an' addressed to 'Mr. P. Dearlove, juxty Troy.' 'Bout this last, I wants Mr. Fogo to post wan at ivery stashun where you stops, so's we may knaw you've got there safe."

"I see," broke in Paul, who had been spelling through the notices with which the carriage was adorned, "there's a fine not exceedin' saxty shillin' ef you communicates wi' the guard wi'out reason, an' wuss ef you cuts the cush'ns or damages the compartment. You'd bes' call Mr. Fogo's 'tention to that."

"An' warn 'un not to get out while the train's i' motion; but you was al'ays thoughtful, Tamsin. God bless thee, little maid! Et makes my head swim o' whiles to think 'pon the times I've a-danced 'ee 'pon my knee, an' now you'm a married woman!"

"God bless you both, my dear brothers!"

"Amazin'," said Paul; "I see the Cumpenny won't hold itsel' liable for—"

There was a slamming of doors, a shriek of the whistle, and the train began to move away. At the same moment Mr. Fogo darted out of the Booking Office, and came tearing up the platform.

"Where's my wife?" he cried. "Which carriage—?"

It was too late. The carriage was already beyond the platform, and the train had gathered speed. But presence of mind belongs not to experience only. At the end of the train was hitched an empty clay-truck, bound on a return journey to Five Lanes Junction. Quick as thought the Twins, as Mr. Fogo rushed up to them, caught him by the coat collar and seat of his trousers, and with one timely heave sent him flying into this. When he staggered to his feet— hatless, without spectacles, and besmeared with clay from head to foot—the train was fifty yards beyond the station. And so, staring back mournfully at the little group upon the platform, he vanished from their sight.

"That," said Peter, turning slowly to his brother, "was nibby-gibby."

"Tamsin mou't ha' communicated wi' the guard," responded Paul, "on'y that, wi'out sufficient reason, wud ha' been not exceedin' saxty shillin'. Do 'ee think 'twud ha' been held sufficient reason?"

"I dunno. I reckon they mou't ha' made et two-pund-ten, all things conseddered," said his brother thoughtfully, "but there's no knawin'."

It is always hateful to say good-bye to friends, and here, with his leave, the reader shall be left to guess on the later fortunes of Tamsin and Mr. Fogo, the Twins and Caleb. It may be, if he care, and the Fates so order it, he shall some day follow them through new adventures; but it will be far from Troy Town. And for the present they shall fare as his imagination pleases.

Of Tamsin, however, who is thus left with her good or sorry fortune before her, something shall be hinted. Public opinion at Troy condemned her marriage. As Miss Limpenny neatly asked, "If we were all to marry beneath us, pray where should we stop?" "We should go on," replied the Admiral, "ad libitum." I am inclined to think he meant "ad infinitum;" but the argument is quite as cogent as it stands.

And yet, since they returned to Kit's House, which they did after an absence of three years, Mr. and Mrs. Fogo have been called upon by the Cumeelfo. Some months ago the Admiral button-holed me in the street.

"I say, who are all those people staying with—with your friends? I mean, the strangers I saw in Church yesterday—a very creditable lot, upon my word."

"I am glad you approve of them," I answered gravely. "The lady with the spectacles is Miss Gamma Girton, the Novelist of Agnosticism; the tall man in black, Thomas Daniel, the critic—"

"Oh, literary people."

"Quite. Then there is Sir Inchcape Bell, the great Engineer; and Lady Judy Twitchett—her husband (the young man with the bald head) sits for Horkey-boro', you know, and will be in the Cabinet with the next—"

But the Admiral was already hurrying down the street. That very afternoon he took his family up to Kit's House, to call; and has been calling at short intervals ever since.

The Goodwyn-Sandys, unless we are sharper than the police, we shall never see again. So close was the pursuit, however, that they were forced to leave the portmanteau in the cloak-room at Paddington Station, where it was discovered and opened. It contained a highly curious clock-work toy, and enough dynamite to raze St. Paul's to the ground. Even without exploding, it converted three statesmen to Home Rule.

Mr. Moggridge's resignation of his post in the Customs was received without expressed regret. He has since married Sophia Buzza, and edits a Conservative paper in Wales. I see that another volume of his verse is in the press. It is to be called "Throbs: and other Trifles," and will include the epithalamium written by him for his own nuptials, as well as his "Farewell to Troy!"—a composition which Mrs. Buzza said she defied "you to read without feeling as if geese were walking over your grave."

Sam Buzza has gone to College.



And what of Troy Town? By degrees the old phrases, old catch-words, and old opinions have come to reign again. Troy's unchanged loveliness too, the daily round full of experiences familiar as old friends, the dear monotony of sight and sound in the little port—all have made for healing and oblivion. If you question us on a certain three months in our life, the chances are you will get no answer. We have agreed to forget, you see; and so we are beginning to persuade ourselves, almost, that those months have never been.

Almost. But, as a fact, Mrs. Buzza had been right. "It will never be the same again-never!" Something we have lost, and I think that something is Troy. For strangers have come amongst us, and have formed a society of their own. The Town is grown out of our knowledge. They have built, and are building, mansions of stucco, and a hotel of hideous brick; a fifth-rate race-meeting threatens the antique regatta; and before all this the savour of Trojan life is departing. Ilion is down, and by no assault of war.

And yet—

The evening before last I passed up the road in front of No. I, Alma Villas. The air was warm, and through the half-opened window a voice stole out—

"In the Great Exhibition of 1851, my dear, Her Majesty the Queen, while partaking of luncheon—"

THE END