CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

IN WHICH THE TINKER FALLS IN LOVE WITH A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.

For many months Spikeman and our hero travelled together, during which time Joey had learnt to grind a knife or a pair of scissors as well as Spikeman himself, and took most of the work off his hands; they suited each other, and passed their time most pleasantly, indulging themselves every day with a few hours' repose and reading on the wayside.

One afternoon, when it was very sultry, they had stopped and ensconced themselves in a shady copse by the side of the road, not far from an old mansion, which stood on an eminence, when Spikeman said, "Joey, I think we are intruding here; and, if so, may be forcibly expelled, which will not be pleasant; so roll the wheel in, out of sight, and then we may indulge in a siesta, which, during this heat, will be very agreeable."

"What's a siesta?" said Joey.

"A siesta is a nap in the middle of the day, universally resorted to by the Spaniards, Italians, and, indeed, by all the inhabitants of hot climates; with respectable people it is called a siesta, but with a travelling tinker it must be, I suppose, called a snooze."

"Well, then, a snooze let it be," said Joey, taking his seat on the turf by Spikeman, in a reclining position.

They had not yet composed themselves to sleep, when they heard a female voice singing at a little distance. The voice evidently proceeded from the pleasure-grounds which were between them and the mansion.

"Hush!" said Spikeman, putting up his finger, as he raised himself on his elbow.

The party evidently advanced nearer to them, and carolled in very beautiful tones, the song of Ariel:—

"Where the bee sucks, there lurk I, In the cowslip's bell I lie," etcetera.

"Heigho!" exclaimed a soft voice, after the song had been finished; "I wish I could creep into a cowslip-bell. Miss Araminta, you are not coming down the walk yet; it appears you are in no hurry, so I'll begin my new book."

After this soliloquy there was silence. Spikeman made a sign to Joey to remain still, and then, creeping on his hands and knees, by degrees arrived as far as he could venture to the other side of the copse.

In a minute or two another footstep was heard coming down the gravel-walk, and soon afterwards another voice.

"Well, Melissa, did you think I never would come? I could not help it. Uncle would have me rub his foot a little."

"Ay, there's the rub," replied the first young lady. "Well, it was a sacrifice of friendship at the altar of humanity. Poor papa! I wish I could rub his foot for him; but I always do it to a quadrille tune, and he always says I rub it too hard. I only follow the music."

"Yes, and so does he; for you sometimes set him a dancing, you giddy girl."

"I am not fit for a nurse, and that's the fact, Araminta. I can feel for him, but I cannot sit still a minute; that you know. Poor mamma was a great loss; and, when she died, I don't know what I should have done, if it hadn't been for my dear cousin Araminta."

"Nay, you are very useful in your way, for you play and sing to him, and that soothes him."

"Yes, I do it with pleasure, for I can do but little else; but, Araminta, my singing is that of the caged bird. I must sing where they hang my cage. Oh, how I wish I had been a man!"

"I believe that there never was a woman yet who has not, at one time of her life, said the same thing, however mild and quiet she may have been in disposition. But, as we cannot, why—"

"Why, the next thing is to wish to be a man's wife, Araminta—is it not?"

"It is natural, I suppose, to wish so," replied Araminta; "but I seldom think about it. I must first see the man I can love before I think about marrying."

"And now tell me, Araminta, what kind of a man do you think you could fancy?"

"I should like him to be steady, generous, brave, and handsome; of unexceptionable family, with plenty of money; that's all."

"Oh, that's all! I admire your 'that's all.' You are not very likely to meet with your match, I'm afraid. If he's steady, he is not very likely to be very generous; and if to those two qualifications you tack on birth, wealth, beauty, and bravery, I think your 'that's all' is very misplaced. Now, I have other ideas."

"Pray let me have them, Melissa."

"I do not want my husband to be very handsome; but I wish him to be full of fire and energy—a man that—in fact, a man that could keep me in tolerable order. I do not care about his having money, as I have plenty in my own possession to bestow on any man I love; but he must be of good education—very fond of reading—romantic, not a little; and his extraction must be, however poor, respectable,—that is, his parents must not have been tradespeople. You know I prefer riding a spirited horse to a quiet one; and, if I were to marry, I should like a husband who would give me some trouble to manage. I think I would master him."

"So have many thought before you, Melissa; but they have been mistaken."

"Yes, because they have attempted it by meekness and submission, thinking to disarm by that method. It never will do, any more than getting into a passion. When a man gives up his liberty, he does make a great sacrifice—that I'm sure of; and a woman should prevent him feeling that he is chained to her."

"And how would you manage that?" said Araminta.

"By being infinite in my variety, always cheerful, and instead of permitting him to stay at home, pinned to my apron-string, order him out away from me, join his amusements, and always have people in the house that he liked, so as to avoid being too much tete-a-tete. The caged bird ever wants to escape; open the doors, and let him take a flight, and he will come back of his own accord. Of course, I am supposing my gentleman to be naturally good-hearted and good-tempered. Sooner than marry what you call a steady, sober man, I'd run away with a captain of a privateer. And, one thing more, Araminta, I never would, passionately, distractedly fond as I might be, acknowledge to my husband the extent of my devotion and affection for him. I would always have him to suppose that I could still love him better than what I yet did— in short, that there was more to be gained; for, depend upon it, when a man is assured that he has nothing more to gain, his attentions are over. You can't expect a man to chase nothing, you know."

"You are a wild girl, Melissa. I only hope you will marry well."

"I hope I shall; but I can tell you this, that if I do make a mistake, at all events my husband will find that he has made a mistake also. There's a little lurking devil in me, which, if roused up by bad treatment, would, I expect, make me more than a match for him. I'm almost sorry that I've so much money of my own, for I suspect every man who says anything pretty to me; and there are but few in this world who would scorn to marry for money."

"I believe so, Melissa; but your person would be quite sufficient without fortune."

"Thanks, coz; for a woman that's very handsome of you. And so now we will begin our new book."

Miss Melissa now commenced reading; and Spikeman, who had not yet seen the faces of the two young ladies, crept softly nearer to the side of the copse, so as to enable him to satisfy his curiosity. In this position he remained nearly an hour; when the book was closed, and the young ladies returned to the house, Melissa again singing as she went.

"Joey," said Spikeman, "I did not think that there was such a woman in existence as that girl; she is just the idea that I have formed of what a woman ought to be; I must find out who she is; I am in love with her, and—"

"Mean to make her a tinker's bride," replied Joey, laughing.

"Joey, I shall certainly knock you down, if you apply that term to her. Come let us go to the village,—it is close at hand."

As soon as they arrived at the village, Spikeman went into the alehouse. During the remainder of the day he was in a brown study, and Joey amused himself with a book. At nine o'clock the company had all quitted the tap-room, and then Spikeman entered into conversation with the hostess. In the course of conversation, she informed him that the mansion belonged to Squire Mathews, who had formerly been a great manufacturer, and who had purchased the place; that the old gentleman had long suffered from the gout, and saw no company, which was very bad for the village; that Miss Melissa was his daughter, and he had a son, who was with his regiment in India, and, it was said, not on very good terms with his father; that the old gentleman was violent and choleric because he was always in pain; but that every one spoke well of Miss Melissa and Miss Araminta, her cousin, who were both very kind to the poor people. Having obtained these particulars, Spikeman went to bed: he slept little that night, as Joey, who was his bedfellow, could vouch for; for he allowed Joey no sleep either, turning and twisting round in the bed every two minutes. The next morning they arose early, and proceeded on their way.

"Joey," said Spikeman, after an hour's silence, "I was thinking a great deal last night."

"So I suppose, for you certainly were not sleeping."

"No, I could not sleep; the fact is, Joey, I am determined to have that girl, Miss Mathews, if I can; a bold attempt for a tinker, you will say, but not for a gentleman born as I was. I thought I never should care for a woman; but there is a current in the affairs of men. I shall now drift with the current, and if it leads to fortune, so much the better; if not, he who dares greatly does greatly. I feel convinced that I should make her a good husband, and it shall not be my fault if I do not gain her."

"Do you mean to propose in form with your foot on your wheel?"

"No, saucebox, I don't; but I mean to turn my knife-grinder's wheel into a wheel of fortune; and with your help I will do so."

"You are sure of my help if you are serious," replied Joey; "but how you are to manage I cannot comprehend."

"I have already made out a programme, although the interweaving of the plot is not yet decided upon; but I must get to the next town as fast as I can, as I must make preparations."

On arrival, they took up humble quarters, as usual; and then Spikeman went to a stationer's, and told them that he had got a commission to execute for a lady. He bought sealing-wax, a glass seal, with "Esperance" as a motto, gilt-edged notepaper, and several other requisites in the stationery line, and ordered them to be packed up carefully, that he might not soil them; he then purchased scented soap, a hair-brush, and other articles for the toilet; and having obtained all these requisites, he added to them one or two pair of common beaver gloves, and then went to the barber's to get his hair cut.

"I am all ready now, Joey," said he, when he returned to the alehouse; "and to-morrow we retrace our steps."

"What! back to the village?"

"Yes; and where we shall remain some time, perhaps."

On reaching the village next morning, Spikeman hired a bedroom, and, leaving Joey to work the grindstone, remained in his apartments. When Joey returned in the evening, he found Spikeman had been very busy with the soap, and had restored his hands to something like their proper colour; he had also shaved himself, and washed his hair clean and brushed it well.

"You see, Joey, I have commenced operations already; I shall soon be prepared to act the part of the gentleman who has turned tinker to gain the love of a fair lady of high degree."

"I wish you success: but what are your plans?"

"That you will find out to-morrow morning; now we must go to bed."



CHAPTER THIRTY.

PLOTTING, READING AND WRITING.

Spikeman was up early the next morning. When they had breakfasted, he desired Joey to go for the knife-grinder's wheel, and follow him. As soon as they were clear of the village, Spikeman said, "It will not do to remain at the village; there's a cottage half a mile down the road where they once gave me a lodging; we must try if we can get it now."

When they arrived at the cottage, Spikeman made a very satisfactory bargain for board and lodging for a few days, stating that they charged so much at the village alehouse that he could not afford to stay there, and that he expected to have a good job at Squire Mathews's, up at the mansion-house. As soon as this arrangement was completed, they returned back to the copse near to the mansion-house, Joey rolling the knife-grinder's wheel.

"You see, Joey," said Spikeman, "the first thing necessary will be to stimulate curiosity; we may have to wait a day or two before the opportunity may occur; but, if necessary, I will wait a month. That Miss Mathews will very often be found on the seat by the copse, either alone or with her cousin, I take to be certain, as all ladies have their favourite retreats. I do not intend that they should see me yet; I must make an impression first. Now, leave the wheel on the outside, and come with me: do not speak."

As soon as they were in the copse, Spikeman reconnoitred very carefully, to ascertain if either of the young ladies were on the bench, and finding no one there, he returned to Joey.

"They cannot come without our hearing their footsteps," said Spikeman; "so now we must wait here patiently."

Spikeman threw himself down on the turf in front of the copse, and Joey followed his example.

"Come, Joey, we may as well read a little to pass away the time; I have brought two volumes of Byron with me."

For half an hour they were thus occupied, when they heard the voice of Miss Mathews singing as before as she came down the walk. Spikeman rose and peeped through the foliage. "She is alone," said he, "which is just what I wished. Now, Joey, I am going to read to you aloud." Spikeman then began to read in the masterly style which we have before referred to:—

"'I loved, and was beloved again; They tell me, Sir, you never knew Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true I shorten all my joys and pain, To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; But all now are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you There, o'er themselves and nations too, I am, or rather was, a Prince, A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on when each would foremost bleed, But would not o'er myself The like control. But to resume: I loved, and was beloved again; In sooth it is a happy doom— But yet where happiness ends in pain.'

"I am afraid that is but too true, my dear boy," said Spikeman, laying down the book; "Shakespeare has most truly said, 'The course of true love never did run smooth.' Nay, he cannot be said to be original in that idea, for Horace and most of the Greek and Latin poets have said much the same thing before him; however, let us go on again—

"'We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to my lady's bower Was fiery expectation's dower; The days and nights were nothing—all Except the hour which doth recall, In the long lapse from youth to age, No other like itself.'

"Do you observe the extreme beauty of that passage?" said Spikeman.

"Yes," said Joey, "it is very beautiful."

"You would more feel the power of it, my dear boy, if you were in love, but your time is not yet come; but I am afraid we must leave off now, for I expect letters of consequence by the post, and it is useless, I fear, waiting here. Come, put the book by, and let us take up the wheel of my sad fortunes."

Spikeman and Joey rose on their feet. Joey went to the knife-grinder's wheel, and Spikeman followed him without looking back; he heard a rustling, nevertheless, among the bushes, which announced to him that his manoeuvres had succeeded; and, as soon as he was about fifty yards from the road, he took the wheel from Joey, desiring him to look back, as if accidentally. Joey did so, and saw Miss Mathews following them with her eyes.

"That will do," observed Spikeman; "her curiosity is excited, and that is all I wish."

What Spikeman said was correct. Araminta joined Miss Mathews shortly after Spikeman and Joey had gone away.

"My dear Araminta," said Melissa, "such an adventure I can hardly credit my senses."

"Why, what is the matter, dear cousin?"

"Do you see that man and boy, with a knife-grinder's wheel, just in sight now?"

"Yes, to be sure I do; but what of them? Have they been insolent?"

"Insolent! they never saw me; they had no idea that I was here. I heard voices as I came down the walk, so I moved softly, and when I gained the seat, there was somebody reading poetry so beautifully; I never heard any one read with such correct emphasis and clear pronunciation. And then he stopped, and talked to the boy about the Greek and Latin poets, and quoted Shakespeare. There must be some mystery."

"Well, but if there is, what has that to do with the travelling tinkers?"

"What! why it was the travelling tinker himself; dearest; but he cannot be a tinker; for I heard him say that he expected letters of consequence, and no travelling tinker could do that."

"Why, no; I doubt if most of them can read at all."

"Now, I would give my little finger to know who that person is."

"Did you see his face?"

"No; he never turned this way; the boy did when they were some distance off. It's very strange."

"What was he reading?"

"I don't know; it was very beautiful. I wonder if he will ever come this way again? If he does—"

"Well, Melissa, and if he does?"

"My scissors want grinding very badly; they won't cut a bit."

"Why, Melissa, you don't mean to fall in love with a tinker?" said Araminta, laughing.

"He is no tinker, I'm sure; but why is he disguised? I should like to know."

"Well, but I came out to tell you that your father wants you. Come along."

The two young ladies then returned to the house, but the mystery of the morning was broached more than once, and canvassed in every possible way.

Spikeman, as soon as he had returned to the cottage, took out his writing materials to concoct an epistle. After some time in correcting, he made out a fair copy, which he read to Joey.

"'I tremble lest at the first moment you cast your eyes over the page, you throw it away without deigning to peruse it; and yet there is nothing in it which could raise a blush on the cheek of a modest maiden. If it be a crime to have seen you by chance, to have watched you by stealth, to consider hallowed every spot you visit—nay, more, if it be a crime to worship at the shrine of beauty and of innocence, or, to speak more boldly, to adore you—then am I guilty. You will ask, why I resort to a clandestine step. Simply, because, when I discovered your name and birth, I felt assured that an ancient feud between the two families, to which nor you nor I were parties, would bar an introduction to your father's house. You would ask me who I am. A gentleman, I trust, by birth and education; a poor one, I grant; and you have made me poorer, for you have robbed me of more than wealth—my peace of mind and my happiness. I feel that I am presumptuous and bold; but forgive me. Your eyes tell me you are too kind, too good, to give unnecessary pain; and if you knew how much I have already suffered, you would not oppress further a man who was happy until he saw you. Pardon me, therefore, my boldness, and excuse the means I have taken of placing this communication before you.'

"That will do, I think," said Spikeman; "and now, Joey, we will go out and take a walk, and I will give you your directions."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS.

The next day our hero, having received the letter with his instructions, went with the wheel down to the copse near to the mansion-house. Here he remained quietly until he heard Miss Melissa coming down the gravel-walk; he waited till she had time to gain her seat, and then, leaving his wheel outside, he walked round the copse until he came to her. She raised her eyes from her book when she saw him.

"If you please, miss, have you any scissors or knives for me to grind?" said Joey, bowing with his hat in his hand.

Miss Mathews looked earnestly at Joey.

"Who are you?" said she at last; "are you the boy who was on this road with a knife-grinder and his wheel yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes, madam, we came this way," replied Joey, bowing again very politely.

"Is he your father?"

"No, madam, he is my uncle; he is not married."

"Your uncle. Well, I have a pair of scissors to grind, and I will go for them: you may bring your wheel in here, as I wish to see how you grind."

"Certainly, miss, with the greatest pleasure."

Joey brought in his wheel, and observing that Miss Mathews had left her book on the seat, he opened it at the marked page and slipped the letter in; and scarcely had done so, when he perceived Miss Mathews and her cousin coming towards him.

"Here are the scissors; mind you make them cut well."

"I will do my best, miss," replied Joey, who immediately set to work.

"Have you been long at this trade?" said Miss Mathews.

"No, miss, not very long."

"And your uncle, has he been long at it?"

Joey hesitated on purpose. "Why, I really don't know exactly how long."

"Why is your uncle not with you?"

"He was obliged to go to town, miss—that is, to a town at some distance from here on business."

"Why, what business can a tinker have?" inquired Araminta.

"I suppose he wanted some soft solder, miss; he requires a great deal."

"Can you read and write, boy?" inquired Melissa.

"Me, miss! how should I know how to write and read?" replied Joey, looking up.

"Have you been much about here?"

"Yes, miss, a good deal; uncle seems to like this part; we never were so long before. The scissors are done now, miss, and they will cut very well. Uncle was in hopes of getting some work at the mansion-house when he came back."

"Can your uncle write and read?"

"I believe he can a little, miss."

"What do I owe you for the scissors?"

"Nothing, miss, if you please; I had rather not take anything from you."

"And why not from me?"

"Because I never worked for so pretty a lady before. Wish you good morning, ladies," said Joey, taking up his wheel and rolling it away.

"Well, Araminta, what do you think now? That's no knife-grinder's boy; he is as well-bred and polite as any lad I ever saw."

"I suspect that he is a little story-teller, saying that he could not write and read," Araminta replied. "And so do I; what made him in such a hurry to go away?"

"I suppose he did not like our questions. I wonder whether the uncle will come. Well, Melissa, I must not quit your father just now, so I must leave you with your book," and, so saying, Araminta took her way to the house.

Miss Mathews was in a reverie for some minutes; Joey's behaviour had puzzled her almost as much as what she had overheard the day before. At last she opened the book, and, to her great astonishment, beheld the letter. She started—looked at it—it was addressed to her. She demurred at first whether she should open it. It must have been put there by the tinker's boy—it was evidently no tinker's letter; it must be a love-letter, and she ought not to read it. There was something, however, so very charming in the whole romance of the affair, if it should turn out, as she suspected, that the tinker should prove a gentleman who had fallen in love with her, and had assumed the disguise. Melissa wanted an excuse to herself for opening the letter. At last she said to herself, "Who knows but what it may be a petition from some poor person or other who is in distress? I ought to read it, at all events."

Had it proved to be a petition, Miss Melissa would have been terribly disappointed. "It certainly is very respectful," thought Melissa, after she had read it, "but I cannot reply to it; that would never do. There certainly is nothing I can take offence at. It must be the tinker himself, I am sure of that: but still he does not say so. Well, I don't know, but I feel very anxious as to what this will come to. O, it can come to nothing, for I cannot love a man I have never seen, and I would not admit a stranger to an interview; that's quite decided. I must show the letter to Araminta. Shall I? I don't know, she's so particular, so steady, and would be talking of propriety and prudence; it would vex her so, and put her quite in a fever, she would be so unhappy; no, it would be cruel to say anything to her, she would fret so about it; I won't tell her, until I think it absolutely necessary. It is a very gentleman-like hand, and elegant language too; but still I'm not going to carry on a secret correspondence with a tinker. It must be the tinker. What an odd thing altogether! What can his name be? An old family quarrel, too. Why, it's a Romeo and Juliet affair, only Romeo's a tinker. Well, one mask is as good as another. He acknowledges himself poor, I like that of him, there's something so honest in it. Well, after all, it will be a little amusement to a poor girl like me, shut up from year's end to year's end, with opodeldocs always in my nose; so I will see what the end of it may be," thought Melissa, rising from her seat to go into the house, and putting the letter into her pocket.

Joey went back to Spikeman and reported progress.

"That's all I wish, Joey," said Spikeman; "now you must not go there to-morrow; we must let it work a little; if she is at all interested in the letter, she will be impatient to know more."

Spikeman was right. Melissa looked up and down the road very often during the next day, and was rather silent during the evening. The second day after, Joey, having received his instructions, set off, with his knife-grinder's wheel, for the mansion-house. When he went round the copse where the bench was, he found Miss Mathews there.

"I beg your pardon, miss, but do you think there is any work at the house?"

"Come here, sir," said Melissa, assuming a very dignified air.

"Yes, miss," said Joey, walking slowly to her.

"Now, tell me the truth, and I will reward you with half-a-crown."

"Yes, miss."

"Did you not put this letter in my book the day before yesterday?"

"Letter, miss! what letter?"

"Don't you deny it, for you know you did; and if you don't tell me the truth, my father is a magistrate, and I'll have you punished."

"I was told not to tell," replied Joey, pretending to be frightened. "But you must tell; yes, and tell me immediately."

"I hope you are not angry, miss."

"No, not if you tell the truth."

"I don't exactly know, miss, but a gentleman—"

"What gentleman?"

"A gentleman that came to uncle, miss."

"A gentleman that came to your uncle; well, go on."

"I suppose he wrote the letter, but I'm not sure; and uncle gave me the letter to put it where you might see it."

"Oh, then, a gentleman, you say, gave your uncle this letter, and your uncle gave it to you to bring to me. Is that it?"

"Uncle gave me the letter, but I dare say uncle will tell you all about it, and who the gentleman was."

"Is your uncle come back?"

"He comes back to-night, madam."

"You're sure your uncle did not write the letter?"

"La, miss! uncle write such a letter as that—and to a lady like you— that would be odd."

"Very odd, indeed!" replied Miss Melissa, who remained a minute or two in thought. "Well, my lad," said she at last, "I must and will know who has had the boldness to write this letter to me; and as your uncle knows, you will bring him here to-morrow, that I may inquire about it; and let him take care that he tells the truth."

"Yes, miss; I will tell him as soon as he comes home. I hope you are not angry with me, miss; I did not think there was any harm in putting into the book such a nice clean letter as that."

"No, I am not angry with you; your uncle is more to blame; I shall expect him to-morrow about this time. You may go now."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

IN WHICH THE TINKER MAKES LOVE.

Joey made his obeisance, and departed as if he was frightened, Miss Melissa watched him: at last she thought, "Tinker or no tinker? that is the question. No tinker, for a cool hundred, as my father would say; for, no tinker's boy, no tinker; and that is no tinker's boy. How clever of him to say that the letter was given him by a gentleman! Now I can send to him to interrogate him, and have an interview without any offence to my feelings; and if he is disguised, as I feel confident that he is, I shall soon discover it."

Miss Melissa Mathews did not sleep that night; and at the time appointed she was sitting on the bench, with all the assumed dignity of a newly-made magistrate. Spikeman and Joey were not long before they made their appearance. Spikeman was particularly clean and neat, although he took care to wear the outward appearance of a tinker; his hands were, by continual washing in hot water, very white, and he had paid every attention to his person, except in wearing his rough and sullied clothes.

"My boy tells me, miss, that you wish to speak to me," said Spikeman, assuming the air of a vulgar man.

"I did, friend," said Melissa, after looking at Spikeman for a few minutes; "a letter has been brought here clandestinely, and your boy confesses that he received it from you; now, I wish to know how you came by it."

"Boy, go away to a distance," said Spikeman, very angrily; "if you can't keep one secret, at all events you shall not hear any more."

Joey retreated, as had been arranged between them.

"Well, madam, or miss (I suppose miss)," said Spikeman, "that letter was written by a gentleman that loves the very ground you tread upon."

"And he requested it to be delivered to me?"

"He did, miss; and if you knew, as I do, how he loves you, you would not be surprised at his taking so bold a step."

"I am surprised at your taking so bold a step, tinker, as to send it by your boy."

"It was a long while before I would venture, miss; but when he had told me what he did, I really could not help doing so; for I pitied him, and so would you, if you knew all."

"And pray what did he tell you?"

"He told me, miss," said Spikeman, who had gradually assumed his own manner of speaking, "that he had ever rejected the thoughts of matrimony—that he rose up every morning thanking Heaven that he was free and independent—that he had scorned the idea of ever being captivated with the charms of a woman; but that one day he had by chance passed down this road, and had heard you singing as you were coming down to repose on this bench. Captivated by your voice, curiosity induced him to conceal himself in the copse behind us, and from thence he had a view of your person: nay, miss he told me more, that he had played the eaves-dropper, and heard all your conversation, free and unconstrained as it was from the supposition that you were alone; he heard you express your sentiments and opinions, and finding that there was on this earth what, in his scepticism, he thought never to exist—youth, beauty, talent, principle, and family, all united in one person—he had bowed at the shrine, and had become a silent and unseen worshipper."

Spikeman stopped speaking.

"Then it appears that this gentleman, as you style him, has been guilty of the ungentlemanly practice of listening to private conversation—no very great recommendation."

"Such was not his intention at first; he was seduced to it by you. Do not blame him for that—now that I have seen you, I cannot; but, miss, he told me more. He said that he felt that he was unworthy of you, and had not a competence to offer you, even if he could obtain your favour; that he discovered that there was a cause which prevented his gaining an introduction to your family; in fact, that he was hopeless and despairing. He had hovered near you for a long time, for he could not leave the air you breathed; and, at last, that he had resolved to set his life upon the die and stake the hazard. Could I refuse him, miss? He is of an old family, but not wealthy; he is a gentleman by birth and education, and therefore I did not think I was doing so very wrong in giving him the chance, trifling as it might be. I beg your pardon, madam, if I have offended; and any message you may have to deliver to him, harsh as it may be—nay, even if it should be his death—it shall be faithfully and truly delivered."

"When shall you see him, Master Tinker?" said Melissa, very gravely.

"In a week he will be here, he said, not before."

"Considering he is so much in love, he takes his time," replied Melissa. "Well, Master Tinker, you may tell him from me, that I've no answer to give him. It is quite ridiculous, as well as highly improper, that I should receive a letter or answer one from a person whom I never saw. I admit his letter to be respectful, or I should have sent a much harsher message."

"Your commands shall be obeyed, miss; that is, if you cannot be persuaded to see him for one minute."

"Most certainly not; I see no gentleman who is not received at my father's house, and properly presented to me. It may be the custom among people in your station of life, Master Tinker, but not in mine; and as for yourself, I recommend you not to attempt to bring another letter."

"I must request your pardon for my fault, miss; may I ask, after I have seen the poor young gentleman, am I to report to you what takes place?"

"Yes, if it is to assure me that I shall be no more troubled with his addresses."

"You shall be obeyed, miss," continued Spikeman; then, changing his tone and air, he said, "I beg your pardon, have you any knives or scissors to grind?"

"No," replied Melissa, jumping up from her seat, and walking towards the house to conceal her mirth. Shortly afterwards she turned round to look if Spikeman was gone; he had remained near the seat, with his eyes following her footsteps. "I could love that man," thought Melissa, as she walked on. "What an eye he has, and what eloquence; I shall run away with a tinker I do believe; but it is my destiny. Why does he say a week—a whole week? But how easy to see through his disguise! He had the stamp of a gentleman upon him. Dear me, I wonder how this is to end! I must not tell Araminta yet; she would be fidgeted out of her wits! How foolish of me! I quite forgot to ask the name of this gentleman. I'll not forget it next time."



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

WELL DONE TINKER.

"It is beyond my hopes, Joey," said Spikeman, as they went back to the cottage; "she knows well enough that I was pleading for myself, and not for another, and she has said quite as much as my most sanguine wishes could desire; in fact, she has given me permission to come again, and report the result of her message to the non-existent gentleman, which is equal to an assignation. I have no doubt now I shall ultimately succeed, and I must make my preparations; I told her that I should not be able to deliver her message for a week, and she did not like the delay, that was clear; it will all work in my favour; a week's expectation will ripen the fruit more than daily meetings. I must leave this to-night; but you may as well stay here, for you can be of no use to me."

"Where are you going, then?"

"First to Dudstone, to take my money out of the bank; I have a good sum, sufficient to carry me on for many months after her marriage, if I do marry her. I shall change my dress at Dudstone, of course, and then start for London, by mail, and fit myself out with a most fashionable wardrobe and etceteras, come down again to Cobhurst, the town we were in the other day, with my portmanteau, and from thence return here in my tinker's clothes to resume operations. You must not go near her during my absence."

"Certainly not; shall I go out at all?"

"No, not with the wheel; you might meet her on the road, and she would be putting questions to you."

That evening Spikeman set off; and was absent for five days, when he again made his appearance early in the morning. Joey had remained almost altogether indoors, and had taken that opportunity of writing to Mary. He wrote on the day after Spikeman's departure, as it would give ample time for an answer before his return; but Joey received no reply to his letter.

"I am all prepared now, my boy," said Spikeman, whose appearance was considerably improved by the various little personal arrangements which he had gone through during the time he was in London. "I have my money in my pockets, my portmanteau at Cobhurst, and now it depends upon the rapidity of my success when the day is to come that I make the knife-grinder's wheel over to you. I will go down now, but without you this time."

Spikeman set off with his wheel, and soon arrived at the usual place of meeting; Miss Mathews, from the window, had perceived him coming down the road; she waited a quarter of an hour before she made her appearance; had not she had her eyes on the hands of the time-piece, and knew that it was only a quarter of an hour, she could have sworn that it had been two hours at least. Poor girl! she had, during this week, run over every circumstance connected with the meeting at least a thousand times; every word that had been exchanged had been engraven on her memory, and, without her knowledge almost, her heart had imperceptibly received the impression. She walked down, reading her book very attentively, until she arrived at the bench.

"Any knives or scissors to grind, ma'am?" asked Spikeman, respectfully coming forward.

"You here again, Master Tinker! Why, I had quite forgot all about you."

(Heaven preserve us! how innocent girls will sometimes tell fibs out of modesty.)

"It were well for others, Miss Mathews, if their memory were equally treacherous," rejoined Spikeman.

"And why so, pray?"

"I speak of the gentleman to whom you sent the message."

"And what was his reply to you?"

"He acknowledged, Miss Mathews, the madness of his communication to you, of the impossibility of your giving him an answer, and of your admitting him to your presence. He admired the prudence of your conduct, but, unfortunately, his admiration only increased his love. He requested me to say that he will write no more."

"He has done wisely, and I am satisfied."

"I would I could say as much for him, Miss Mathews; for it is my opinion, that his very existence is now so bound up with the possession of you, that if he does not succeed he cannot exist."

"That's not my fault," replied Melissa, with her eyes cast down.

"No, it is not. Still, Miss Mathews, when it is considered that this man had abjured, I may say, had almost despised women, it is no small triumph to you, or homage from him, that you have made him feel the power of your sex."

"It is his just punishment for having despised us."

"Perhaps so; yet if we were all punished for our misdeeds, as Shakespeare says, who should escape whipping?"

"Pray, Master Tinker, where did you learn to quote Shakespeare?"

"Where I learnt much more. I was not always a travelling tinker."

"So I presumed before this. And pray how came you to be one?"

"Miss Mathews, if the truth must be told, it arose from an unfortunate attachment."

"I have read in the olden poets that love would turn a god into a man; but I never heard of its making him a tinker," replied Melissa, smiling.

"The immortal Jove did not hesitate to conceal his thunderbolts when he deigned to love; and Cupid but too often has recourse to the aid of Proteus to secure success. We have, therefore, no mean warranty."

"And who was the lady of thy love, good Master Tinker?"

"She was, Miss Mathews, like you in everything. She was as beautiful, as intelligent, as honest, as proud, and, unfortunately, she was, like you, as obdurate, which reminds me of the unfortunate gentleman whose emissary I now am. In his madness he requested me—yes, Miss Mathews, me a poor tinker—to woo you for him—to say to you all that he would have said had he been admitted to your presence—to plead for him—to kneel for him at your feet, and entreat you to have some compassion for one whose only misfortune was to love—whose only fault was to be poor. What could I say, Miss Mathews—what could I reply to a person in his state of desperation? To reason with him, to argue with him, had been useless; I could only soothe him by making such a promise, provided that I was permitted to do it. Tell me, Miss Mathews, have I your permission to make the attempt?"

"First, Mr Tinker, I should wish to know the name of this gentleman."

"I promised not to mention it, Miss Mathews; but I can evade the promise. I have a book which belongs to him in my pocket, on the inside of which are the arms of his family, with his father's name underneath them."

Spikeman presented the book. Melissa read the name, and then laid it on the bench, without saying a word.

"And now, Miss Mathews, as I have shown you that the gentleman has no wish to conceal who he is, may I venture to hope that you will permit me to plead occasionally, when I may see you, in his behalf."

"I know not what to say, Master Tinker. I consider it a measure fraught with some danger, both to the gentleman and to myself. You have quoted Shakespeare—allow me now to do the same:—

"'Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the affairs and offices of love, Therefore all hearts use your own tongues.'

"You observe, Master Tinker, that there is the danger of your pleading for yourself, and not for your client; and there is also the danger of my being insensibly moved to listen to the addresses of a tinker. Now, only reflect upon the awful consequences," continued Melissa, smiling.

"I pledge you my honour, Miss Mathews, that I will only plead for the person whose name you have read in the book, and that you shall never be humiliated by the importunities of a mender of pots and pans."

"You pledge the honour of a tinker; what may that be worth?"

"A tinker that has the honour of conversing with Miss Mathews, has an honour that cannot be too highly appreciated."

"Well, that is very polite for a mender of old kettles; but the schoolmaster is abroad, which, I presume, accounts for such strange anomalies as our present conversation. I must now wish you good morning."

"When may I have the honour of again presenting myself in behalf of the poor gentleman?"

"I can really make no appointments with tinkers," replied Melissa; "if you personate that young man, you must be content to wait for days or months to catch a glimpse of the hem of my garment; to bay the moon and bless the stars, and I do not know what else. It is, in short, catch me when you can; and now farewell, good Master Tinker," replied Melissa, leaving her own book, and taking the one Spikeman had put into her hand, which she carried with her to the house. It was all up with Miss Melissa Mathews, that was clear.

We shall pass over a fortnight, during which Spikeman, at first every other day, and subsequently every day or evening, had a meeting with Melissa, in every one of which he pleaded his cause in the third person. Joey began to be very tired of this affair, as he remained idle during the whole time, when one morning Spikeman told him that he must go down to the meeting-place without the wheel, and tell Miss Mathews his uncle the tinker was ill, and not able to come that evening.

Joey received his instructions, and went down immediately. Miss Mathews was not to be seen, and Joey, to avoid observation, hid himself in the copse, awaiting her arrival. At last she came, accompanied by Araminta, her cousin. As soon as they had taken their seats on the bench, Araminta commenced: "My dear Melissa, I could not speak to you in the house, on account of your father; but Simpson has told me this morning that she thought it her duty to state to me that you have been seen, not only in the day time, but late in the evening, walking and talking with a strange-looking man. I have thought it very odd that you should not have mentioned this mysterious person to me lately; but I do think it most strange that you should have been so imprudent. Now, tell me everything that has happened, or I must really make it known to your father."

"And have me locked up for months,—that's very kind of you, Araminta," replied Melissa.

"But consider what you have been doing, Melissa. Who is this man?"

"A travelling tinker, who brought me a letter from a gentleman, who has been so silly as to fall in love with me."

"And what steps have you taken, cousin?"

"Positively refused to receive a letter, or to see the gentleman."

"Then why does the man come again?"

"To know if we have any knives or scissors to grind."

"Come, come, Melissa, this is ridiculous. All the servants are talking about it; and you know how servants talk. Why do you continue to see this fellow?"

"Because he amuses me, and it is so stupid of him."

"If that is your only reason, you can have no objection to see him no more, now that scandal is abroad. Will you promise me that you will not? Recollect, dear Melissa, how imprudent and how unmaidenly it is."

"Why, you don't think that I am going to elope with a tinker, do you, cousin?"

"I should think not; nevertheless, a tinker is no companion for Miss Mathews, dear cousin. Melissa, you have been most imprudent. How far you have told me the truth I know not; but this I must tell you, if you do not promise me to give up this disgraceful acquaintance, I will immediately acquaint my uncle."

"I will not be forced into any promise, Araminta," replied Melissa, indignantly.

"Well, then, I will not hurry you into it. I will give you forty-eight hours to reply, and if by that time your own good sense does not point out your indiscretion, I certainly will make it known to your father; that is decided." So saying. Araminta rose from the bench and walked towards the house.

"Eight-and-forty hours," said Melissa, thoughtfully; "it must be decided by that time."

Joey, who had wit enough to perceive how matters stood, made up his mind not to deliver his message. He knew that Spikeman was well, and presumed that his staying away was to make Miss Mathews more impatient to see him. Melissa remained on the bench in deep thought; at last Joey went up to her.

"You here, my boy! what have you come for?" said Melissa.

"I was strolling this way, madam."

"Come here; I want you to tell me the truth; indeed, it is useless to attempt to deceive me. Is that person your uncle?"

"No, miss, he is not."

"I knew that. Is he not the person who wrote the letter, and a gentleman in disguise? Answer me that question, and then I have a message to him which will make him happy."

"He is a gentleman, miss."

"And his name is Spikeman, is it not?"

"Yes, miss, it is."

"Will he be here this evening? This is no time for trifling."

"If you want him, miss, I am sure he will."

"Tell him to be sure and come, and not in disguise," said Melissa, bursting into tears. "That's no use, my die is cast," continued she, talking to herself. Joey remained by her side until she removed her hands from her face. "Why do you wait?"

"At what hour, miss, shall he come?" said Joey.

"As soon as it is dusk. Leave me, boy, and do not forget."

Joey hastened to Spikeman, and narrated what he had seen and heard, with the message of Melissa.

"My dear boy, you have helped me to happiness," said Spikeman. "She shed tears, did she? Poor thing! I trust they will be the last she shall shed. I must be off to Cobhurst at once. Meet me at dark at the copse, for I shall want to speak to you."

Spikeman set off for the town as fast as he could, with his bundle on his head. When half way he went into a field and changed his clothes, discarding his tinker's dress for ever, throwing it into a ditch for the benefit of the finder. He then went into the town to his rooms, dressed himself in a fashionable suit, arranged his portmanteau, and ordered a chaise to be ready at the door at a certain time, so as to arrive at the village before dusk. After he had passed through the village, he ordered the postboy to stop about fifty yards on the other side of the copse, and getting out desired him to remain till he returned. Joey was already there, and soon afterwards Miss M made her appearance, coming down the walk in a hurried manner, in her shawl and bonnet. As soon as she gained the bench, Spikeman was at her feet; he told her he knew what had passed between her and her cousin; that he could not, would not part with her—he now came without disguise to repeat what he had so often said to her, that he loved and adored her, and that his life should be devoted to make her happy.

Melissa wept, entreated, refused, and half consented; Spikeman led her away from the bench towards the road, she still refusing, yet still advancing, until they came to the door of the chaise. Joey let down the steps; Melissa, half fainting and half resisting, was put in; Spikeman followed, and the door was closed by Joey.

"Stop a moment, boy," said Spikeman. "Here, Joey, take this."

As Spikeman put a packet into our hero's hand, Melissa clasped her hands and cried, "Yes—yes! stop, do stop, and let me out; I cannot go, indeed I cannot."

"There's lights coming down the gravel walk," said Joey; "they are running fast."

"Drive on, boy, as fast as you can," said Spikeman.

"Oh, yes! drive on," cried Melissa, sinking into her lover's arms.

Off went the chaise, leaving Joey on the road with the packet in his hand; our hero turned round and perceived the lights close to him, and, not exactly wishing to be interrogated, he set off as fast as he could, and never checked his speed until he arrived at the cottage where he and Spikeman had taken up their quarters.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A VERY LONG CHAPTER, NECESSARY TO FETCH UP THE REMAINDER OF THE CONVOY.

As it was late that night, Joey did not open the packet delivered to him from Spikeman until he arose the next morning, which he did very early, as he thought it very likely that he might be apprehended, if he was not off in good time. The packet contained a key, 20 pounds in money, and a paper, with the following letter:—

"My dear boy,—As we must now part, at least for some time, I have left you money sufficient to set you up for the present; I have inclosed a memorandum, by which I make over to you the knife-grinder's wheel, and all the furniture, books, etcetera, that are in my rooms at Dudstone, the key of which is also inclosed. I should recommend you going there and taking immediate possession, and as soon as I have time, I shall write to the woman of the house, to inform her of the contents of the memorandum; and I will also write to you, and let you know how I get on. Of course you will now do as you please; at all events, I have taught you a profession, and have given you the means of following it. I only hope, if you do, that some day you may be able to retire from business as successfully as I have done. You will, of course, write to me occasionally, after you know where I am. Depend upon it, there is no profession so near to that of a gentleman as that of a travelling tinker.

"Yours ever truly, AUGUSTUS SPIKEMAN.

"NB. There is some money in the old place to pay the bill at the cottage."

Our hero considered that he could not do better than follow the advice of Spikeman. He first wrote a few lines to Mary, requesting that she would send her answer to Dudstone; and then, having settled with the hostess, he set off with his knife-grinder's wheel on his return home to what were now his apartments. As he was not anxious to make money, he did not delay on his road, and on the fifth day he found himself at the door of the alehouse near to Dudstone, where he had before left the wheel. Joey thought it advisable to do so now, telling the landlord that Spikeman had requested him so to do; and as soon as it was dusk, our hero proceeded to the town, and knocked at the door of the house in which were Spikeman's apartments. He informed the landlady that Spikeman would not in all probability return, and had sent him to take possession, showing her the key. The dame was satisfied, and Joey went upstairs. As soon as he had lighted the candle, and fairly installed himself, our hero threw himself down on the sofa and began to reflect. It is pleasant to have property of our own, and Joey never had had any before; it was satisfactory to look at the furniture, bed, and books, and say, "All this is mine." Joey felt this, as it is to be presumed everybody would in the same position, and for some time he continued looking round and round at his property. Having satisfied himself with a review of it externally, he next proceeded to open all the drawers, the chests, etcetera. There were many articles in them which Joey did not expect to find, such as a store of sheets, table linen, and all Spikeman's clothes, which he had discarded when he went up to London, some silver spoons, and a variety of little odds and ends; in short, Spikeman had left our hero everything as it stood. Joey put his money away, and then went to bed, and slept as serenely as the largest landed proprietor in the kingdom. When he awoke next morning, our hero began to reflect upon what he should do. He was not of Spikeman's opinion that a travelling tinker was the next thing to a gentleman, nor did he much like the idea of rolling the wheel about all his life; nevertheless, he agreed with Spikeman that it was a trade by which he could earn his livelihood, and if he could do no better, it would always be a resource. As soon as he had taken his breakfast, he sat down and wrote to Mary, acquainting her with all that had taken place, and stating what his own feelings were upon his future prospects. Having finished his letter, he dressed himself neatly, and went out to call upon the widow James. Miss Ophelia and Miss Amelia were both at home.

"Well, Master Atherton, how do you do? and pray where is Mr Spikeman?" said both the girls in a breath.

"He is a long way from this!" replied Joey.

"A long way from this! Why, has he not come back with you?"

"No! and I believe he will not come back any more. I am come, as his agent, to take possession of his property."

"Why, what has happened?"

"A very sad accident," replied our hero, shaking his head; "he fell—"

"Fell!" exclaimed the two girls in a breath.

"Yes, fell in love, and is married."

"Well now!" exclaimed Miss Ophelia, "only to think!"

Miss Amelia said nothing.

"And so he is really married?"

"Yes; and he has given up business."

"He did seem in a great hurry when he last came here," observed Amelia. "And what are you going to do?"

"I am not going to follow his example just yet," replied Joey.

"I suppose not; but what are you going to do?" replied Ophelia.

"I shall wait here for his orders; I expect to hear from him. Whether I am to remain in this part of the country, or sell off and join him, or look out for some other business, I hardly know; I think myself I shall look out for something else; I don't like the cutlery line and travelling for orders. How is your mamma, Miss Ophelia?"

"She is very well, and has gone to market. Well, I never did expect to hear of Mr Spikeman being married! Who is he married to, Joseph?"

"To a very beautiful young lady, daughter of Squire Mathews, with a large fortune."

"Yes; men always look for money nowadays," said Amelia.

"I must go now," said Joey, getting up; "I have some calls and some inquiries to make. Good morning, young ladies."

It must be acknowledged that the two Misses James were not quite so cordial towards Joey as they were formerly; but unmarried girls do not like to hear of their old acquaintances marrying anybody save themselves. There is not only a flirt the less, but a chance the less in consequence; and it should be remarked, that there were very few beaux at Dudstone. Our hero was some days at Dudstone before he received a letter from Spikeman, who informed him that he had arrived safely at Gretna (indeed, there was no male relation of the family to pursue him), and the silken bands of Hymen had been made more secure by the iron rivets of the blacksmith; that three days after he had written a letter to his wife's father, informing him that he had done him the honour of marrying his daughter; that he could not exactly say when he could find time to come to the mansion and pay him a visit, but that he would as soon as he conveniently could; that he begged that the room prepared for them upon their arrival might have a large dressing-room attached to it, as he could not dispense with that convenience; that he was not aware whether Mr Mathews was inclined to part with the mansion and property, but, as his wife had declared that she would prefer living there to anywhere else, he had not any objection to purchase it of Mr Mathews, if they could come to terms; hoped his gout was better, and was his "very faithfully, AUGUSTUS SPIKEMAN." Melissa wrote a few lines to Araminta, begging her, as a favour, not to attempt to palliate her conduct, but to rail against her incessantly, as it would be the surest method of bringing affairs to an amicable settlement.

To her father she wrote only these few words:—

"My dear Papa,—You will be glad to hear that I am married. Augustus says that, if I behave well, he will come and see you soon. Dear papa, your dutiful child, MELISSA SPIKEMAN."

That the letters of Spikeman and Melissa put the old gentleman in no small degree of rage, may be conceived; but nothing could be more judicious than the plan Spikeman had acted upon. It is useless to plead to a man who is irritated with constant gout; he only becomes more despotic and more unyielding. Had Araminta attempted to soften his indignation, it would have been equally fruitless; but the compliance with the request of her cousin of continually railing against her, had the effect intended. The vituperation of Araminta left him nothing to say; there was no opposition to direct his anathemas against; there was no coaxing or wheedling on the part of the offenders for him to repulse; and when Araminta pressed the old gentleman to vow that Melissa should never enter the doors again, he accused her of being influenced by interested motives, threw a basin at her head, and wrote an epistle requesting Melissa to come and take his blessing. Araminta refused to attend her uncle after this insult, and the old gentleman became still more anxious for the return of his daughter, as he was now left entirely to the caprice of his servants. Araminta gave Melissa an account of what had passed, and entreated her to come at once. She did so, and a general reconciliation took place. Mr Mathews, finding his new son-in-law very indifferent to pecuniary matters, insisted upon making over to his wife an estate in Herefordshire, which, with Melissa's own fortune, rendered them in most affluent circumstances. Spikeman requested Joey to write to him now and then, and that, if he required assistance, he would apply for it; but still advised him to follow up the profession of travelling tinker as being the most independent.

Our hero had hardly time to digest the contents of Spikeman's letter when he received a large packet from Mary, accounting for her not having replied to him before, in consequence of her absence from the Hall. She had, three weeks before, received a letter written for Mrs Chopper, acquainting her that Mrs Chopper was so very ill that it was not thought possible that she could recover, having an abscess in the liver which threatened to break internally, and requesting Mary to obtain leave to come to Gravesend, if she possibly could, as Mrs Chopper wished to see her before she died. Great as was Mary's repugnance to revisit Gravesend, she felt that the obligations she was under to Mrs Chopper were too great for her to hesitate; and showing the letter to Mrs Austin, and stating at the same time that she considered Mrs Chopper as more than a mother to her, she obtained the leave which she requested, and set off for Gravesend.

It was with feelings of deep shame and humiliation that poor Mary walked down the main street of the town, casting her eyes up fearfully to the scenes of her former life. She was very plainly attired, and had a thick veil over her face, so that nobody recognised her; she arrived at the door of Mrs Chopper's abode, ascended the stairs, and was once more in the room out of which she had quitted Gravesend to lead a new life; and most conscientiously had she fulfilled her resolution, as the reader must be aware. Mrs Chopper was in bed and slumbering when Mary softly opened the door; the signs of approaching death were on her countenance—her large, round form had wasted away—her fingers were now taper and bloodless; Mary would not have recognised her had she fallen in with her under other circumstances. An old woman was in attendance; she rose up when Mary entered, imagining that it was some kind lady come to visit the sick woman. Mary sat down by the side of the bed, and motioned to the old woman that she might go out, and then she raised her veil and waited till the sufferer roused. Mary had snuffed the candle twice that she might see sufficiently to read the Prayer Book which she had taken up, when Mrs Chopper opened her eyes.

"How very kind of you, ma'am!" said Mrs Chopper; "and where is Miss —-? My eyes are dimmer every day."

"It is me, Mary—Nancy that was!"

"And so it is! O, Nancy, now I shall die in peace! I thought at first it was the kind lady who comes every day to read and to pray with me. Dear Nancy, how glad I am to see you! And how do you do? And how is poor Peter?"

"Quite well when I heard from him last, my dear Mrs Chopper."

"You don't know, Nancy, what a comfort it is to me to see you looking as you do, so good and so innocent; and when I think it was by my humble means that you were put in the way of becoming so, I feel as if I had done one good act, and that perhaps my sins may be forgiven me."

"God will reward you, Mrs Chopper; I said so at the time, and I feel it now," replied Mary, the tears rolling down her cheeks; "I trust by your means, and with strength from above, I shall continue in the same path, so that one sinner may be saved."

"Bless you, Nancy!—You never were a bad girl in heart; I always said so. And where is Peter now?"

"Going about the country earning his bread; poor, but happy."

"Well, Nancy, it will soon be over with me; I may die in a second, they tell me, or I may live for three or four days; but I sent for you that I might put my house in order. There are only two people that I care for upon earth—that is you and my poor Peter; and all I have I mean to leave between you. I have signed a paper already, in case you could not come, but now that you are come, I will tell you all I wish; but give me some of that drink first."

Mary having read the directions on the label, poured out a wine-glass of the mixture, and gave it to Mrs Chopper, who swallowed it, and then proceeded, taking a paper from under her pillow—

"Nancy! this is the paper I told you of. I have about 700 pounds in the bank, which is all that I have saved in twenty-two years; but it has been honestly made. I have, perhaps, much more owing to me, but I do not want it to be collected. Poor sailors have no money to spare, and I release them all. You will see me buried, Nancy, and tell poor Peter how I loved him, and I have left my account books, with my bad debts and good debts, to him. I am sure he would like to have them, for he knows the history of every sum-total, and he will look over them and think of me. You can sell this furniture; but the wherry you must give to William; he is not very honest, but he has a large family to keep. Do what you like, dearest, about what is here; perhaps my clothes would be useful to his wife; they are not fit for you. There's a good deal of money in the upper drawer; it will pay for my funeral and the doctor. I believe that is all now; but do tell poor Peter how I loved him. Poor fellow, I have been cheated ever since he left; but that's no matter. Now, Nancy, dear, read to me a little. I have so longed to have you by my bedside to read to me, and pray for me! I want to hear you pray before I die. It will make me happy to hear you pray, and see that kind face looking up to heaven, as it was always meant to do." Poor Mary burst into tears. After a few minutes she became more composed, and, dropping down on her knees by the side of the bed, she opened the Prayer Book, and complied with the request of Mrs Chopper; and as she fervently poured forth her supplication, occasionally her voice faltered, and she would stop to brush away the tears which dimmed her sight. She was still so occupied when the door of the room was gently opened, and a lady, with a girl about fourteen or fifteen years old, quietly entered the room. Mary did not perceive them until they also had knelt down. She finished the prayer, rose, and, with a short curtsey, retired from the side of the bed.

Although not recognised herself by the lady, Mary, immediately remembered Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, having as we have before observed, been at one time in Mrs Phillips's service.

"This is the young woman whom you so wished to see, Mrs Chopper, is it not?" said Mrs Phillips. "I am not surprised at your longing for her, for she appears well suited for a companion in such an hour; and, alas! how, few there are! Sit down, I request," continued Mrs Phillips, turning to Mary. "How do you find yourself to-day, Mrs Chopper?"

"Sinking fast, dear madam, but not unwilling to go, since I have seen Nancy, and heard of my poor Peter; he wrote to Nancy a short time ago. Nancy, don't forget my love to Peter."

Emma Phillips, who had now grown tall and thin, immediately went up to Mary, and said, "Peter was the little boy who was with Mrs Chopper; I met him on the road when he first came to Gravesend, did I not?"

"Yes, miss you did," replied Mary.

"He used to come to our house sometimes, and very often to meet me as I walked home from school. I never could imagine what became of him, for he disappeared all at once without saying good-bye."

"He was obliged to go away, miss. It was not his fault; he was a very good boy, and is so still."

"Then pray remember me to him, and tell him that I often think of him."

"I will, Miss Phillips, and he will be very happy to hear that you have said so."

"How did you know that my name was Phillips? O, I suppose poor Mrs Chopper told you before we came."

Mrs Phillips had now read some time to Mrs Chopper, and this put an end to the conversation between Mary and Emma Phillips. It was not resumed. As soon as the reading was over, Mrs Phillips and her daughter took their leave.

Mary made up a bed for herself by the side of Mrs Chopper's. About the middle of the night, she was roused by a gurgling kind of noise; she hastened to the bedside, and found that Mrs Chopper was suffocating. Mary called in the old woman to her aid, but it was useless, the abscess had burst, and in a few seconds all was over; and Mary, struggling with emotion, closed the eyes of her old friend, and offered up a prayer for her departed spirit.

The remainder of the night was passed in solemn meditation and a renewal of those vows which the poor girl had hitherto so scrupulously adhered to, and which the death-bed scene was so well fitted to encourage; but Mary felt that she had her duties towards others to discharge, and did not give way to useless and unavailing sorrow. It was her duty to return as soon as possible to her indulgent mistress, and the next morning she was busy in making the necessary arrangements. On the third day Mary attended the funeral of her old friend, the bills were all paid, and having selected some articles which she wished to retain as a remembrance, she resolved to make over to William, the waterman, not only the wherry, but all the stock in hand, furniture and clothes of Mrs Chopper. This would enable him and his wife to set up in business themselves and provide for their family. Mary knew that she had no right to do so without Joey's consent, but of this she felt she was sure; having so done, she had nothing more to do but to see the lawyer who had drawn up the will, and having gone through the necessary forms, she received an order on the county bank nearest to the Hall for the money, which, with what was left in the drawers, after paying every demand, amounted to more than 700 pounds. She thought it was her duty to call upon Mrs Phillips, before she went away, out of gratitude for her kindness to Mrs Chopper; and as she had not been recognised, she had no scruple in so doing. She was kindly received, and blushed at the praise bestowed upon her. As she was going away, Emma Phillips followed her out, and putting into her hand a silver pencil-case, requested she would "give it to Peter as a remembrance of his little friend, Emma." The next day Mary arrived at the Hall, first communicated to Mrs Austin what had occurred, and then, having received our hero's two last epistles, sat down to write the packet containing all the intelligence we have made known, and ended by requesting Joey to set off with his knife-grinder's wheel, and come to the village near to the Hall, that he might receive his share of Mrs Chopper's money, the silver pencil-case, and the warm greeting of his adopted sister. Joey was not long in deciding. He resolved that he would go to Mary; and, having locked up his apartments, he once more resumed his wheel, and was soon on his way to Hampshire.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A RETROSPECT THAT THE PARTIES MAY ALL START FAIR AGAIN.

We must now leave our hero on his way to the Hall, while we acquaint our readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history. A correspondence had been kept up between O'Donahue and McShane. O'Donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and employment in the Russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the rank of general. Five or six years had elapsed since he had married, and both O'Donahue and his wife were anxious to visit England; a letter at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring.

During this period McShane had continued at his old quarters, Mrs McShane still carrying on the business, which every year became more lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already amassed a large sum, when McShane received the letter from O'Donahue, announcing that in a few months he would arrive in England. Major McShane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who, although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose his entreaties. McShane found that after disposing of the goodwill of the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds, which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they were with children.

Let it not be supposed that McShane had ceased in his inquiries after our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware, without success. Both McShane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. McShane had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no more of Joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. Our hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between McShane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. As soon as McShane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the funds. After about three months' search he found a property which suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains held by Mr Austin. He had taken possession and furnished it. As a retired officer in the army he was well received; and if Mrs McShane was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and McShane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. The O'Donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and McShane had now a domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to pay him a visit as soon as he arrived.

Of the Austins little more can be said that has not been said already. Austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss—for he had every means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in possession of station, wealth, and respect—was poisoned by the one heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a source of hourly and unavailing repentance. His son, who should have inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he was in existence. Every day Austin became more nervous and irritable, more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his conscience. He could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. Each year added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he treated his servants and his unhappy wife. His chief amusement was hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought that he was anxious to break his neck. Perhaps he was. Mrs Austin was much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband's presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. Her whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband. Mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of Mrs Austin's own attendant Mrs Austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became more partial to and more confidential with her. Such was the state of affairs, when one morning, as Austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation—

"By-the-bye, Austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?"

"What!—on the Frampton estate, I suppose; I heard that it had been sold."

"Yes; I have seen him. He is one of your profession—a lively, amusing sort of Irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. The wife not very high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her downright simpleness of heart. You will call upon them, I presume?"

"Oh, of course," replied Austin. "What is his name did you say?"

"Major McShane, formerly of the 53rd Regiment, I believe."

Had a bullet passed through the heart of Austin, he could not have received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his saddle attracted the notice of his companion.

"What's the matter, Austin, you look pale; you are not well."

"No," replied Austin, recollecting himself; "I am not; one of those twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. I shall be better directly."

Austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. His companion rode up, and remained near him.

"It is worse than usual; I thought it was coming on last night; I fear that I must go home."

"Shall I go with you?"

"O, no; I must not spoil your sport. I am better now a great deal; it is going off fast. Come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at cover."

Austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. His friend had no suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody suspects us. They rode a few minutes in silence.

"Well I am glad that you did not go home," observed his friend; "for you will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides."

Austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could not proceed. His companion expressed his sorrow at Austin's indisposition, and they separated.

Austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to his private sitting-room. Mrs Austin, who had seen him return, and could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband.

"What is the matter, my dear?" said Mrs Austin.

"Matter!" replied Austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; "heaven and hell conspire against us!"

"Dear Austin, don't talk in that way. What has happened?"

"Something which will compel me, I expect, to remain a prisoner in my own house, or lead to something unpleasant. We must not stay here."

Austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. At last the persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. He told her that McShane was the major of his regiment when he was a private; that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else occurred from McShane's knowledge of his former name, at all events, the general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county gentlemen.

"It is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear Austin; but are you sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private soldier in the gentleman of fortune?"

"As sure as I sit here," replied Austin, gloomily; "I wish I were dead."

"Don't say so, dear Austin, it makes me miserable."

"I never am otherwise," replied Austin, clasping his hands. "God forgive me! I have sinned, but have I not been punished?"

"You have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you will receive God's mercy."

"The greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death," replied the unhappy man; "I envy the pedlar." Mrs Austin wept. Her husband, irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly ordered her to leave the room.

That Austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a Christian. His pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered; this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his constitution.

Austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. The country practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an affection of the heart. He was not far wrong; and Mr Austin's illness was generally promulgated. Cards and calls were the consequence, and Austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house. His hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every one intimated that Mr Austin was labouring under a disease from which he would not recover. At first this was extremely irksome to Austin, and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. Books were his chief amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out the rooted memory of the brain. Austin became more morose and misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him but his valet and his wife.

Such was the position of his parents, when Joey was proceeding to their abode.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

OUR HERO FALLS IN WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND IS NOT VERY MUCH DELIGHTED.

We left our hero rolling his knife-grinder's wheel towards his father's house. It must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. He was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of Spikeman's property, and had received from Mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. It retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. More than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so Joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion.

How many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! The sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. He planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. Nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. Time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last Joey found himself at the ale-house where he and Mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the Hall. He immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. He would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher's boy, who was going up to the Hall for orders. The answer returned by the same party was, that Mary would come down and see him that evening. When Mary came down Joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from Gravesend. The careless air and manner had disappeared; there was a retenue—a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. But, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered Nancy of former times. That the greeting was warm need hardly be said. It was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly.

"You are very much grown, Joey," said Mary. "Dear boy, how happy I am to see you!"

"And you, Mary, you're younger in the face, but older in your manners. Are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?"

"Quite happy; more happy than ever I deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, Joey, what do you think of doing? You have now the means of establishing yourself."

"Yes, I have been thinking of it; but I don't know what to do."

"Well, you must look out, and do not be in too great a hurry. Recollect, Joey, that if anything offers which you have any reason to believe will suit you, you shall have my money as well as your own."

"Nay, Mary, why should I take that?"

"Because, as it is of no use to me, it must be idle; besides, you know, if you succeed, you will be able to pay me interest for it; so I shall gain as well as you. You must not refuse your sister, my dear boy."

"Dear Mary, how I wish we could live in the same house!"

"That cannot be now, Joey; you are above my situation at the Hall, even allowing that you would ever enter it."

"That I never will, if I can help it; not that I feel angry now, but I like to be independent."

"Of course you do."

"And as for that grindstone, I hate the sight of it; it has made Spikeman's fortune, but it never shall make mine."

"You don't agree then with your former companion," rejoined Mary, "that a tinker's is the nearest profession to that of a gentleman which you know of."

"I certainly do not," replied our hero; "and as soon as I can get rid of it I will; I have rolled it here, but I will not roll it much farther. I only wish I knew where to go."

"I have something in my pocket which puts me in mind of a piece of news which I received the other day, since my return. First let me give you what I have in my pocket,"—and Mary pulled out the pencil-case sent to Joey by Emma Phillips. "There you know already who that is from."

"Yes, and I shall value it very much, for she was a dear, kind little creature; and when I was very, very miserable, she comforted me."

"Well, Joey, Miss Phillips requested me to write when I came back, as she wished to hear that I had arrived safe at the Hall. It was very kind of her, and I did so, of course. Since that I have received a letter from her, stating that her grandmother is dead, and that her mother is going to quit Gravesend for Portsmouth, to reside with her brother, who is now a widower."

"I will go to Portsmouth," replied our hero.

"I was thinking that, as her brother is a navy agent, and Mrs Phillips is interested about you, you could not do better. If anything turns up, then you will have good advice, and your money is not so likely to be thrown away. I think, therefore, you had better go to Portsmouth, and try your fortune."

"I am very glad you have mentioned this, Mary, for, till now, one place was as indifferent to me as another; but now it is otherwise, and to Portsmouth I will certainly go."

Our hero remained two or three days longer at the village, during which time Mary was with him every evening, and once she obtained leave to go to the banker's about her money. She then turned over to Joey's account the sum due to him, and arrangements were made with the bank so that Joey could draw his capital out whenever he pleased.

After which our hero took leave of Mary, promising to correspond more freely than before; and once more putting the strap of his knife-grinder's wheel over his shoulders, he set off on his journey to Portsmouth.

Joey had not gained two miles from the village when he asked himself the question, "What shall I do with my grindstone?" He did not like to leave it on the road; he did not know to whom he could give it away. He rolled it on for about six miles farther, and then, quite tired, he resolved to follow the plan formerly adopted by Spikeman, and repose a little upon the turf on the road-side. The sun was very warm, and after a time Joey retreated to the other side of the hedge, which was shaded; and having taken his bundle from the side of the wheel where it hung, he first made his dinner of the provender he had brought with him, and then, laying his head on the bundle, was soon in a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by hearing voices on the other side of the hedge. He turned round, and perceived two men on the side of the road, close to his knife-grinder's wheel. They were in their shirts and trousers only and sitting down on the turf.

"It would be a very good plan," observed one of them; "we should then travel without suspicion."

"Yes; if we could get off with it without being discovered. Where can the owner of it be."

"Well, I dare say he is away upon some business or another, and has left the wheel here till he comes back. Now, suppose we were to take it—how should we manage?"

"Why, we cannot go along this road with it. We must get over the gates and hedges till we get across the country into another road; and then by travelling all night, we might be quite clear."

"Yes, and then we should do well; for even if our description as deserters was sent out from Portsmouth, we should be considered as travelling tinkers and there would be no suspicion."

"Well, I'm ready for it. If we can only get it off the road, and conceal it till night, we may then easily manage it. But first let's see if the fellow it belongs to may not be somewhere about here."

As the man said this, he rose up and turned his face towards the hedge, and our hero immediately perceived that it was his old acquaintance, Furness, the schoolmaster and marine. What to do he hardly knew. At last he perceived Furness advancing towards the gate of the field, which was close to where he was lying, and, as escape was impossible, our hero covered his face with his arms, and pretended to be fast asleep. He soon heard a "Hush!" given, as a signal to the other man, and, after a while, footsteps close to him. Joey pretended to snore loudly, and a whispering then took place. At last he heard Furness say—

"Do you watch by him while I wheel away the grindstone."

"But if he wakes, what shall I do?"

"Brain him with that big stone. If he does not wake up when I am past the second field, follow me."

That our hero had no inclination to wake after this notice may be easily imagined; he heard the gate opened, and the wheel trundled away, much to his delight, as Furness was the party who had it in charge; and Joey continued to snore hard, until at last he heard the departing footsteps of Furness's comrade, who had watched him. He thought it prudent to continue motionless for some time longer, to give them time to be well away from him, and then he gradually turned round and looked in the direction in which they had gone; he could see nothing of them, and it was not until he had risen up, and climbed up on the gate, that he perceived them two or three fields off running away at a rapid pace. Thanking heaven that he had escaped the danger that he was in, and delighted with the loss of his property, our hero recommenced his journey with his bundle over his shoulder, and before night he was safe outside one of the stages which took him to a town, from which there was another which would carry him to Portsmouth, at which sea-port he arrived the next evening without further adventure.

As our hero sat on the outside of the coach and reflected upon his last adventure, the more he felt he had reason to congratulate himself. That Furness had deserted from the Marine Barracks at Portsmouth was evident; and if he had not, that he would have recognised Joey some time or other was almost certain. Now, he felt sure that he was safe at Portsmouth, as it would be the last place at which Furness would make his appearance; and he also felt that his knife-grinder's wheel, in supplying Furness with the ostensible means of livelihood, and thereby preventing his being taken up as a deserter, had proved the best friend to him, and could not have been disposed of better. Another piece of good fortune was his having secured his bundle and money; for had he left it with the wheel, it would have, of course, shared its fate. "Besides," thought Joey, "if I should chance to fall, in with Furness again, and he attempts to approach me, I can threaten to have him taken as a deserter, and this may deter him from so doing." It was with a grateful heart that our hero laid his head upon his pillow, in the humble inn at which he had taken up his quarters.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

IN WHICH OUR HERO RETURNS TO HIS FORMER EMPLOYMENT, BUT ON A GRANDER SCALE OF OPERATION.

Our hero had received from Mary the name and address of Mrs Phillips's brother, and, on inquiry, found that he was known by everybody. Joey dressed himself in his best suit, and presented himself at the door about ten o'clock in the morning, as Joseph O'Donahue, the name which he had taken when he went to Gravesend, and by which name he had been known to Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, when he made occasional visits to their house. He was admitted, and found himself once more in company with his friend Emma, who was now fast growing up into womanhood. After the first congratulations and inquiries, he stated his intentions in coming down to Portsmouth, and their assistance was immediately promised. They then requested a detail of his adventures since he quitted Gravesend, of which Joey told everything that he safely could; passing over his meeting with Furness, by simply stating that, while he was asleep, his knife-grinder's wheel had been stolen by two men, and that when he awoke he dared not offer an opposition. Mrs Phillips and her daughter both knew that there was some mystery about our hero, which had induced him to come to, and also to leave Gravesend; but, being assured by Mary and himself; that he was not to blame, they did not press him to say more than he wished; and, as soon as he finished his history, they proposed introducing him to Mr Small, the brother of Mrs Phillips, in whose house they were then residing, and who was then in his office.

"But, perhaps, mamma, it will be better to wait till tomorrow, and in the meantime you will be able to tell my uncle all about Joey," observed Emma.

"I think it will be better, my dear," replied Mrs Phillips; "but there is Marianne's tap at the door, for the second time; she wants me downstairs, so I must leave you for a little while; but you need not go away, O'Donahue; I will be back soon."

Mrs Phillips left the room, and our hero found himself alone with Emma.

"You have grown very much, Joey," said Emma; "and so have I, too, they tell me."

"Yes, you have indeed," replied Joey; "you are no longer the little girl who comforted me when I was so unhappy. Do you recollect that day?"

"Yes, indeed I do, as if it were but yesterday. But you have never told me why you lead so wandering a life; you won't trust me."

"I would trust you with anything but that which is not mine to trust, as I told you four years ago; it is not my secret; as soon as I can I will tell you everything; but I hope not to lead a wandering life any longer, for I have come down here to settle, if I can."

"What made you think of coming down here?" asked Emma.

"Because you were here; Mary told me so. I have not yet thanked you for your present, but I have not forgotten your kindness in thinking of a poor boy like me, when he was far away; here it is," continued Joey, taking out the pencil-case, "and I have loved it dearly," added he, kissing it, "ever since I have had it in my possession. I very often have taken it out and thought of you."

"Now you are so rich a man, you should give me something to keep for your sake," replied Emma; "and I will be very careful of it, for old acquaintance' sake."

"What can I offer to you? you are a young lady; I would give you all I had in the world, if I dared, but—"

"When I first saw you," rejoined Emma, "you were dressed as a young gentleman."

"Yes, I was," replied Joey, with a sigh; and as the observation of Emma recalled to his mind the kindness of the McShanes, he passed his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear or two that started.

"I did not mean to make you unhappy," said Emma, taking our hero's hand.

"I am sure you did not," replied Joey, smiling. "Yes, I was then as you say; but recollect that lately I have been a knife-grinder."

"Well, you know, your friend said, that it was the nearest thing to a gentleman; and now I hope you will be quite a gentleman again."

"Not a gentleman, for I must turn to some business or another," replied Joey.

"I did not mean an idle gentleman; I meant a respectable profession," said Emma. "My uncle is a very odd man, but very good-hearted; you must not mind his way towards you. He is very fond of mamma and me, and I have no doubt will interest himself about you, and see that your money is not thrown away. Perhaps you would like to set up a bumboat on your own account?" added Emma, laughing.

"No, I thank you; I had enough of that. Poor Mrs Chopper! what a kind creature she was! I'm sure I ought to be very grateful to her for thinking of me as she did."

"I believe," said Emma, "that she was a very good woman, and so does mamma. Recollect Joey, when you speak to my uncle, you must not contradict him."

"I am sure I shall not," replied Joey; "why should I contradict a person so far my superior in years and everything else?"

"Certainly not; and as he is fond of argument, you had better give up to him at once; and, indeed," continued Emma, laughing, "everybody else does in the end. I hope you will find a nice situation, and that we shall see a great deal of you."

"I am sure I do," replied Joey, "for I have no friends that I may see, except you. How I wish that you did know everything!"

A silence ensued between the young people, which was not interrupted until by the appearance of Mrs Phillips, who had seen Mr Small, and had made an engagement for our hero to present himself at nine o'clock on the following morning, after which communication our hero took his leave. He amused himself during the remainder of that day in walking over the town, which at that time presented a most bustling appearance, as an expedition was fitting out; the streets were crowded with officers of the army, navy, and marines, in their uniforms; soldiers and sailors, more or less tipsy; flaunting ribbons and gaudy colours, and every variety of noise was to be heard that could be well imagined, from the quacking of a duck, with its head out of the basket in which it was confined to be taken on board, to the martial music, the rolling of the drums, and the occasional salutes of artillery, to let the world know that some great man had put his foot on board of a ship, or had again deigned to tread upon terra firma. All was bustle and excitement, hurrying, jostling, cursing, and swearing; and Joey found himself, by the manner in which he was shoved about right and left, to be in the way of everybody.

At the time appointed our hero made his appearance at the door, and, having given his name, was asked into the counting-house of the establishment, where sat Mr Small and his factotum, Mr Sleek. It may be as well here to describe the persons and peculiarities of these two gentlemen.

Mr Small certainly did not accord with his name, for he was a man full six feet high, and stout in proportion; he was in face extremely plain, with a turned-up nose; but, at the same time, there was a lurking good-humour in his countenance, and a twinkle in his eye, which immediately prepossessed you, and in a few minutes you forgot that he was not well-favoured. Mr Small was very fond of an argument and a joke, and he had such a forcible way of maintaining his argument when he happened to be near you, that, as Emma had told our hero, few people after a time ventured to contradict him. This mode of argument was nothing more than digging the hard knuckles of his large hand into the ribs of his opponent—we should rather say gradually gimleting, as it were, a hole in your side—as he heated in his illustrations. He was the last person in the world in his disposition to inflict pain, even upon an insect—and yet, from this habit, no one perhaps gave more, or appeared to do so with more malice, as his countenance was radiant with good-humour, at the very time when his knuckles were taking away your breath. What made it worse, was, that he had a knack of seizing the coat lappet with the other hand, so that escape was difficult; and when he had exhausted all his reasoning, he would follow it up with a pressure of his knuckles under the fifth rib, saying, "Now you feel the force of my argument, don't you?" Everybody did, and no one would oppose him unless the table was between them. It was much the same with his jokes: he would utter them, and then with a loud laugh, and the insidious insertion of his knuckles, say, "Do you take that, eh?" Mr Sleek had also his peculiarity, and was not an agreeable person to argue with, for he had learnt to argue from his many years' constant companionship with the head of the firm. Mr Sleek was a spare man, deeply pock-marked in the face, and with a very large mouth; and, when speaking, he sputtered to such a degree, that a quarter of an hour's conversation with him was as good as a shower-bath. At long range Mr Sleek could heat his superior out of the field; but if Mr Small approached once to close quarters, Mr Sleek gave in immediately. The captains of the navy used to assert that this fibbing enforcement of his truths, on the part of Small, was quite contrary to all the rules of modern warfare, and never would stand it, unless they required an advance of money; and then, by submitting to a certain quantity of digs in the ribs in proportion to the unreasonableness of their demand, they usually obtained their object; as they said he "knuckled down" in the end. As for Mr Sleek, although the best man in the world, he was their abhorrence; he was nothing but a watering-pot, and they were not plants which required his aid to add to their vigour. Mr Sleek, even in the largest company, invariably found himself alone, and could never imagine why. Still he was an important personage; and when stock is to be got on board in a hurry, officers in his Majesty's service do not care about a little spray.