and said that really children did ask such extraordinary questions that it was the most difficult thing in the world to talk to them. Mr. Weller took upon himself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but the housekeeper entreating that he would not put such things in the child's head, Mr. Weller shook his own while she looked another way, and seemed to be troubled with a misgiving that captivation was in progress. It was perhaps on this account that he changed the subject precipitately. 46 It's werry wrong in little boys to make game o' their grandfathers, a'nt it mum?" said Mr. Weller, shaking his head waggishly, until Tony looked at him, when he counterfeited the deepest dejection and sorrow. "Oh, very sad!" assented the housekeeper. "But I hope no little boys do that?" “There is vun young Tork, mum," said Mr. Weller, "as havin' seen his grandfather a little overcome with drink on the occasion of a friend's birthday, goes a reelin' and staggerin' about the house, and makin' believe that he's the old gen'lm'n.” "Oh quite shocking!" cried the housekeeper. "Yes mum," said Mr. Weller, "and previous to se doin', this here young traitor that I'm speakin' of, pinches his little nose to make it red, and then he gives a hiccup and says 'I'm all right' he says, 'give us another song!' Ha ha! Give us another song' he says Ha ha ha!" In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his moral responsibility, until Tony kicked up his legs and laughing immederately cried "That was me, that was:" whereupon the grandfather by a great effort became extremely solemn. "No Tony, not you," said Mr. Weller. "I hope it warn't you, Tony. It must ha' been that 'ere naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o' the empty watch-box round the corner-that same little chap as wos found standing on the table afore the looking glass, pretending to shave himself vith a oyster-knife." "He didn't hurt himself, I hope?" observed the housekeeper. "Not he, mum," said Mr. Weller, proudly, "bless your heart you might trust that 'ere boy vith a steam engine a'most, he's such a knowin' young"-but suddenly recollecting himself and observing that Tony perfectly understood and appreciated the compliment, the old gentleman groaned and observed that "it wos all wery shockin'-wery." "Oh he's a bad 'un," said Mr. Weller, "is that 'ere watchbox boy, makin' such a noise and litter in the back-yard, he does, waterin' wooden horses and feedin' of 'em vith grass, and perpetivally spillin' his little brother out of a veelbarrow and frightenin' his mother out of her wits, at the wery moment wen she's expectin' to increase his stock of happiness vith another play-feller-oh he's a bad 'un! He's even gone so far as to put on a pair o' paper spectacles as he got his father to make for him, and walk up and down the garden vith his hands behind him in imitation of Mr. Pickwick-but Tony don't do such things, oh no!" "Oh no!" echoed Tony. "He knows better, he does," said Mr. Weller, "he knows that if he wos to come sich games as these, nobody would 'ut love him, and that his grandfather in partickler could n't abear the sight on him; for vich reason Tony's always good.” "Always good," echoed Tony; and his grandfather immediately took him on his knee and kissed him, at the same time with many nods and winks pointing to the child's head with his thumb, in order that the housekeeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable manner in which he (Mr. Weller) had sustained his character, might not suppose that any other young gentleman was referred to, and might clearly understand that the boy of the watch-box was but an imaginary creation, and a fetch of Tony himself invented for his improvement and reformation. delighted audiences. It was half-past nine o'clock when Mr. Weller was last seen carrying him home upon his shoulder, and it has been whispered abroad that at that time the infant Tony was rather intoxicated. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. CHAPTER THE NINTH. The child, in her confidence with Mrs. Quilp, had but feebly described the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of the cloud which overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides that it was very difficult to impart to any person not intimately acquainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of its gloom and loneliness, a constant fear of in some way committing or injuring the old man to whom she was so tenderly attached, had restrained her even in the midst of her heart's overflowing, and made her tirid of allusion to the main cause of her anxietyand distress. For, it was not the monotonous days uncheckered by variety and uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary evenings or the long solitary nights, it was not the absence of every slight and easy pleasure for which young hearts beat high, or the knowing nothing of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded spirit, that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old man struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated at times with a dreadful fear that his mind was wandering, and to trace in his words and looks the dawning of despondent madness; to watch and wait and listen for confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and know that, come what might, they were alone in the world with no one to help or advise or care about themthese were causes of depression and anxiety that might have sat heavily on an older breast with many influences at work to cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the mind of a young child to whom they were ever present, and who was constantly surrounded by all that could keep such thoughts in restless action! And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When he could for a moment disengage his mind from the phantom that haunted and brooded on it always, there was his young companion with the same smile for him, the same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same love and care that sinking deep into his soul, seemed to have been present to him through his whole life. And so he went on, content to read the book of her heart from the page first presented to him, little dreaming of the story that lay hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within himself that at least the child was happy. She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and moving with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures, making them older by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and cheerful presence. But now the chambers were cold and gloomy, and when she left her own little room to while away the tedious hours, and sat in one of them, he was still and motionless as their inanimate occupan's, and had no heart to startle the echoes-hoarse from their long silence with her voice. In one of these rooms was a window looking into the street, where the child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night, alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait, and at these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind in crowds. She would take her station here at dusk, and watch the people as they passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the opposite houses, wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs, in Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of the which by often looking at them she had fancied ugly faces that grandson's abilities, Mr. Weller, when tea was finished, in- were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the room, cited him by various gifts of pence and half pence to smoke and she felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out, imaginary pipes, drink visionary beer from real pots, imitate though she was sorry too when the man came to light the his grandfather without reserve, and in particular to go lamps in the streets, for it made it late and very dull inside. Then through the drunken scene, which threw the old gentleman she would draw in her head to look round the room and see into ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor that every thing was in its place and had n't moved; and was Mr. Weller's pride satisfied with even this display, for looking out in the street again would perhaps see a man passwhen he took his leave he carried the child like some rare ing with a coffin on his back, and two or three others silently and astonishing curiosity, first to the barber's house and after- following him to a house where somebody lay dead, which wards to the tobacconist's, at each of which places he repeat- made her shudder and think of such things until they suggested his performances with the utmost effect to applauding anded afresh the old man's altered face and manner, and a new train of fears and speculations. If he were to die-if sudden illness had happened to him, and he were never to come home again alive-if, one night, he should come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after she had gone to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming pleasantly, and smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself and his blood come creeping, creeping, on the ground to her own bed-room door! These thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and again she would have recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer feet and darker and more silent than before. The shops were closing fast, and lights began to shine from the upper windows, as the neighbors went to bed. By degrees these dwindled away and disappeared, or were replaced here and there by a feeble rush-candle which was to burn all night. Still there was one late shop at no great distance which sent forth a ruddy glare upon the pavement even yet, and looked bright and companionable. But in a little time this closed, the light was extinguished, and all was gloomy and quiet, except when some stray footsteps sounded on the pavement, or a neighbor, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at his house-door to rouse the sleeping inmates. When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had) the child would close the window, and steal softly down stairs, thinking as she went that if one of those hideous faces below, which often mingled with her dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering itself visible by some strange light of its own, how terrified she would be. But these fears vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect of her own room. After praying fervently and with many bursting tears for the old man, and the restoration of his peace of mind and the happiness they had once enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the pillow and sob herself to sleep, often starting up again, before the day-light came, to listen for the bell, and respond to the imaginary summons which had roused her from her slumber. True," said the old man, faintly. "Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My head fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more than that he would see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the note." 'Nothing more,' "said the child. "Shall I go to him again to-morrow, dear grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back, before breakfast." The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her towards him. "'T would be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts me, Nell, at this moment-if he deserts me now, when I should, with his assistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost, and all the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I am ruined, and-worse, far worse than that have ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If we are beggars-?" "What if we are," said the child boldly. "Let us be beggars, and be happy." "Beggars and happy!" said the old man. “Poor child!" "Dear grandfather," cried the girl with an energy which shone in her flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, "I am not a child in that, I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may beg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather than live as we do now.' "Nelly!" said the old man. "Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now," the child repeated, more earnestly than before. "If you are sorrowful, let me know why and be sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day, let me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be poor together, but let me be with you, do let me be with you, do not let me see such change and not know why, or I shall break my heart and die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad place tomorrow, and beg our way from door to door." The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow of the couch on which he lay. "Let us be beggars," said the child passing an arm round his neck, "I have no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall. Let us walk through country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of money again, of any thing that can make you sad, but rest at nights and have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank God together. Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melancholy houses any more, but wander up and down wherever we like to go, and when you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place we can find, and I will go and beg for both." The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's neck; nor did she weep alone. These were not werds for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes. And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person than Mr. Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first placed herself at the old man's side, refrained-actuated, no doubt, by motives and stood looking on with his accustomed grin. Standing, of the purest delicacy-from interrupting the conversation, however, being a tiresome attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the dwarf being one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at home, he soon cast his eyes upon a chair into which he skipped with uncommon agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort to himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for doing something fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over the other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head turned a little on one side, and his ugly features twisted into a complacent grimace. And in this position the old man, happening in course of time to look that way, at length chanced to see him, to his unbounded astonishment. The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable figure; in their first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing what to say, and half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the same attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension. At length the old man pronounced his name, and inquired how he came there. "Through the door," said Quilp, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes. I wish I was. I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in private-with nobody present, neighbor. Good bye, little Nelly." Nelly looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her cheek. "Ah!" said the dwarf, smacking his lips, "what a nice kiss that was-just upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!" Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark.Quilp looked after her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the door, fell to complimenting the old man upon her charms. "Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbor," said Quilp, nursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much; "such a chubby, rosy, cosy. little Nell!" The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling with a feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience. It was not lost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed any body else when he could. "She's so," said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be quite absorbed in the subject, "so small, so compact, so beautifully modeled, so fair, with such blue veins and such a transparent skin, and such little feet, and such winning ways -but bless me, you're nervous. Why, neighbor, what's the * matter? I swear to you," continued the dwarf dismounting from the chair and sitting down in it, with a careful slowness of gesture very different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up unheard, "I swear to you that I had no idea old blood ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was sluggish in its courses, and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbor." "I believe it is," groaned the old man, clasping his head "There's burning fever here, and somewith both hands. thing now and then to which I fear to give a name." The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat. Here he remained with his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and then suddenly raising it, said, "Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?" "No!" returned Quilp. “Then,” said the old man, clenching his hands desperate-Look at these figures, the result of long calculation and painly, and looking upward, "the child and I are lost!" ful and hard experience. I must win, I only want a little help once more, a few pounds, but two score of pounds, dear Quilp." 66 Neighbor," said Quilp, glancing sternly at him, and beat ing his hand twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, "let me be plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret from me now." The old man looked up, trembling. one. "You are surprised," said Quilp. "Well, perhaps that's natural. You have no secret from me now. I say no, not For now I know that all those sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies that you have had from me, have found their way to shall I say the word ?" "Ay!" replied the old man, say it, if you will.” "To the gaming-table," rejoined Quilp, "your nightly haunt. This was the precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret certain source to wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had been the fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of gold, your El Dorado, eh?" "Yes," cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes," it was. It is. It will be till I die." "That I should have been blinded," said Quilp looking contemptuously at him, "by a mere shallow gambler!" "I am no gambler," cried the old man fiercely. "I call upon Heaven to witness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that at every piece I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name and called on Heaven to bless the venture, which it never did. Whom did it prosper? Who were those with whom I played? Men who lived by plunder, profligacy, and riot, squandering their gold in doing ill and propagating vice and evil. My winnings would have been from them, my winnings would have been bestowed to the last farthing on a young sinless child whose life they would have sweetened and made happy. What would they have contracted? The means of corruption, wretchedness and misery. Who would not have hoped in such a cause-tell me that; not who would not have hoped as I did ?"" "When did you first begin this mad career?" asked Quilp, his taunting inclination subdued for a moment by the old man's grief and wildness. "When did I first begin?" he rejoined, passing his hand across his brow. "When was it that I first began? When should it be but when I began to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with barely enough to keep her from the sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was that I began to think about it." "After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed off to sea?" said Quilp. "Shortly after that," replied the old man. "I thought of it a long time, and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found no pleasure in it, I expected none. What has it ever brought to me but anxious days and sleepless nights, but loss of health and peace of mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow!" "You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me. While I thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were) you were making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it comes to pass that I hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill of sale upon the-upon the stock and property," said Quilp standing up and looking about him, as if to assure himself that none of it had been taken away. "But did you never win?" "Never!" groaned the old man. "Never won back my first loss!" "I thought," sneered the dwarf, "that if a man played long enough he was sure to win at last, or at the worst not to come off a loser." "And so he is," cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his state of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement," so he is; I have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed three nights of winning the same large sum, I never could dream that dream before, though I have often tried. Do not desert me now I have this chance. I have no resource but you: give me some help, let me try this one last hope." The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "See Quilp, good, tender-hearted, Quilp," said the old man' drawing some scraps of paper from his pocket with a trem bling hand, and clasping the dwarf's arm, "only see here "The last advance was seventy," said the dwarf; "and it went in one night."' "I know it did," answered the old man, "but that was the very worst fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider, consider," the old man cried, trembling so much the while that the papers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, "that orphan child. If I were alone, I could die with gladness-perhaps even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally, coming as it does on the proud and happy in their strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted and all who court it in their despair-bat what I have done, has been for her. Help me for her sake I implore you-not for mine, for hers!" "I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city," said Quilp looking at his watch with perfect self-possession," or I should have been very glad to have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself—very glad." Nay, Quilp, good Quilp," gasped the old man, catching at his skirts-"you and I have talked together more than once of her poor mother's story. The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do not be hard upon me, but take that into account. You are a great gainer by me. Oh, spare me the money for this one last hope!" "I could n't do it, really," said Quilp with unusual polite. ness, "though I tell you what-and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes-I was so deceived by the penu rious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly—" "All done to save money for tempting fortune, and make her triumph greater," cried the old man. "Yes, yes, I understand that now," said Quilp; "but I was going to say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had among those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances that you would make of my ad vances treble and quadruple the interest you paid me, that I'd have advanced you even now what you want, on your simple note of hand, though I had been led to suspect something wrong, if I had n't unexpectedly become acquainted with your secret way of life." "Who is it," retorted the old man desperately, "that notwithstanding all my caution, told you that. Come. Let me know the name-the person." The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had em ployed, which, as nothing was to be gained by it, it was as well to conceal, stopped short in his answer and said, “Now, who do you think?" "It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy and you tampered with him?" said the old man. "How came you to think of him?" said the dwarf in a tone of great commiseration. "Yes it was Kit. Poor Kit!" So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave, stopping when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with extraordinary delight. "Poor Kit!" muttered Quilp. "I think it was Kit who said I was an uglier dwarf than could be seen any where for a penny, was n't it. Ha, ha, ha! Poor Kit!" And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went, CHAPTER X. Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house, unobserved. In the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many passages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one who having taken up his posi tion when the twilight first came on, still maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall with the manner of one who had a long time to wait, and being well used to it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for an hour together. This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were constantly directed towards one object, the window at which the child was accustomed to sit. If he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock in some neighboring shop, and then to strain his sight once more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and attention. It has been remarked that this personage evinced no weari ness in his place of concealment, nor did he, long as his wait ing was. But as the time went on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more frequently and at the window less hopefully than before. At length the clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters, then the church steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter past, and then the conviction seemed to obtrude itself upon his mind that it was of no use tarrying there any longer. That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no means willing to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the spot; from the tardy steps with which he often left it, still looking over his shoulder at the same window; and from the precipitation with which he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the changing and imperfect light induced him to suppose it had been softly raised. At length he gave the matter up as hopeless for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run as though to force himself away, scampered off at his utmost speed, nor once ventured to look behind him lest he should be tempted back again. Without relaxing his pace or stopping to take breath, this mysterious individual dashed on through a great many alleys and narrow ways until he at length arrived in a square paved court, when he subsided into a walk, and making for a small honse from the window of which a light was shining, lifted the latch of the door and passed in. "Bless us!" cried a woman turning sharply round, "who's that? Oh: it's you Kit!" "Yes, mother, it 's me." "Why, how tired you look, my dear!" "Old master an't gone out to-night," said Kit; "and so she has n't been at the window at all." With which words, he sat down by the fire and looked very mournful and discon tented. cause I've been watching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her." "I wonder what she 'd say," cried his mother, stepping in her work and looking round, "if she knew that every night, when she-poor thing-is sitting alone at that window, you are watching in the open street for fear any harm should come to her, and that you never leave the place or come home to your bed, though you 're ever so tired, till such time as you think she 's safe in hers." "Never mind what she 'd say," replied Kit, with something like a blush on his uncouth face; "she 'll never know nothing, and consequently, she 'll never say nothing." Mrs. Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming to the fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said nothing until she had returned to her table again, when holding the iron at an alarmingly short distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and looking round with a smile, she observed: "I know what some people would say, Kit-" "Nonsense," interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was to follow. "No, but they would, indeed. Some people would say that you'd fallen in love with her; I know they would." To this Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 'get out," and forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms, accompanied by sympathetic contortions of his face. Not deriving from these means the relief which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the bread and meat, and took a quick drink of the porter, by which artificial aids he choked himself and effected a diversion of the subject. "Speaking seriously though, Kit," said his mother taking up the theme afresh, after a time, "for of course I was only in joke just now, it 's very good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and never let any body know it, though some day hope she may come to know it, for I 'm sure she would be very grateful to you and feel it very much. It's a cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up there. I do n't wonder that the old gentleman wants to keep it from you." The room in which Kit sat himself down in this condition was an extremely poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about it, neverthless, which-or the spot must be a wretched one indeed-cleanliness and order can always im- I part in some degree. Late as the Dutch clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still hard at work at an ironing-table; a young child lay sleeping in a cradle near the fire; and another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old, very wide awake, with a very tight night-cap on his head, and a nightgown very much too small for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a clothes-basket staring over the rim with his great round eyes, and looking as if he had thoroughly made up his mind never to go to sleep any mere; which, as he had already declined to take his natural rest and had been brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful prospect for his relations and friends. It was rather a queer-looking family; Kit, his mother, and the children, being all strongly alike. "He do n't think it's cruel, bless you," said Kit, "and do n't mean it to be so, or he would n't do it-I do consider, mother, that he would n't do it for all the gold and silver in the world. No, no; that he would n't. I know him better than that." "Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from you?" said Mrs. Nubbles. "It's only somebody outside." "That I don't know," returned her son. "If he had n't tried to keep it so close, though, I should never have found it out, for it was his getting me away at night and sending me Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are off so much earlier than he used to, that first made me curitoo often-but he looked at the youngest child who was sleep-ous to know what was going on. Hark! what's that?" ing soundly, and from him to his other brother in the clothesbasket, and from him to their mother, who had been at work without complaint since morning, and thought it would be a better and kinder thing to be good-humored. So he rocked the cradle with his foot, made a face at the rebel in the clothes-basket, which put him in high good-humor directly, and stoutly determined to be talkative and make himself agreeable. Ah, mother!" said Kit, taking out his clasp-knife and falling upon a great piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for him, hours before, "what a one you are! There a' n't many such as you, I know." "I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit," said Mrs. Nubbles;" and that there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson at chapel says." "Much he knows about it," returned Kit, contemptuously. "Wait till he's a widder and works like you, and gets as little and does as much, and keeps his spirits up the same, and then I'll ask him what 's o'clock and trust him for being right to half a second." "Well," said Mrs. Nubbles, evading the point, "your beer's down there by the fender, Kit." "I see," replied her son, taking up the porter pot," my love to you, mother. And the parson's health too if you like. I do n't bear him any malice, not I!" "Did you tell me just new that your master had n't gone out to-night?" inquired Mrs. Nubbles. "Yes," said Kit, "worse luck." "You should say better luck, I think," returned his mother, "because Miss Nelly won't have been left alone." "Ah!" said Kit, "I forgot that. I said worse luck, be "It's somebody crossing over here," said Kit, standing up to listen, "and coming very fast too. He can't have gone out after I left, and the house caught fire, mother!" The boy stood for a moment, really bereft, by the appreThe foothension he had conjured up, of the power to move. steps drew nearer, the door was opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and breathless, and hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried into the room. "Miss Nelly! What is the matter?" cried mother and son together. "I must not stay a moment," she returned, "grandfather has been taken very ill; I found him in a fit upon the floor-" "I'll run for a doctor," said Kit, seizing his brimless hat. "I'll be there directly, I 'll—" No, no," cried Nell, "there is one there, you 're not wanted, you-you-must never come near us any more!" "What!" roared Kit. "Never again," said the child. "De n't ask me why, for I don't know. Pray do n't ask me why, pray do n't be sorry, pray do n't be vexed with me, I have nothing to do with it indeed! Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide, and opened and shut his mouth a great many times, but could n't get out one word. "He complains and raves of you," said the child, "I don't know what you have done, but I hope it's nothing very bad.', "I done!" roared Kit. "He cries that you 're the cause of all his misery," returned the child with tearful eyes; he screamed and called for you—they say you must not come near him or he will die. The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder. and harder, and with eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless and silent. "I have brought his money for the week," said the child, looking to the woman and laying it on the table-and-and a little more, for he was always good and kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well somewhere else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves me very much to part with him like this, but there is no help. It must be done. Good night!" With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure trembling with the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock she had received, the errand she had just discharged, and a thousand painful and affectionate feelings, the child hastened to the door, and disappeared as rapidly as she had come. The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every reason for relying on his honesty and truth, was staggered notwithstanding by his not having advanced one word in his defence. Visions of gallantry, knavery, robbery-and of the nightly absences from home for which he had account ed so strangely, having been occasioned by some unlawful pursuit-flocked into her brain and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked herself upon a chair wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, but Kit made no attempt to comfort her and remained quite bewildered. The baby in the cradle woke up and cried, the boy in the clothes-basket fell over on his back with basket upon him and was seen no more, the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster, but Kit, insensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of utter stupefaction. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no longer beneath the roof that sheltered the child. Next morning the old man was in a raging fever accompanied with delirium, and sinking under the influence of this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of his life. There, was watching enough now, but it was the watching of strangers who made of it a greedy trade, and who, in the intervals of their attendance upon the sick man, huddled together with a ghastly good-fellowship, and eat and drunk and made merry; for disease and death were their ordinary household gods. Yet in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was more alone than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in her devotion to him who was wasting away upon his burning bed, alone in her unfeigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day after day and night after night, found her still by the pillow of the unconscious sufferer, still anticipating his every want, and stiil listening to those repetitions of her name and those anxieties and cares for her, which were ever uppermost among his fervent wanderings. The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber seemed to be retained on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favor. The old man's illness had not lasted many days when he took formal position of the premises and all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in question. This important step secured, with the assistance of a man of law whom he brought with him for the purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim against all comers; and then set about making his quarters comfortable after his own fashion. and an espe To this end, Mr. Quilp encamped in the back parlor, having first put an effectual stop to any further business by shutting up the shop. Having looked out from among the old furniture the handsomest and most commodious chair he could possibly find, which he reserved for his own use, cially hideous and uncomfortable one, which he considerately appropriated to the accommodation of his friend, he caused them to be carried into this room and took up his position in great state. The apartment was very far removed from the old man's chamber, but Mr. Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against infection from fever, and a means of wholesome fumigation, not only to smoke himself without cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal friend did the like. Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling boy, who, arriving with all dispatch, was enjoined to sit himself down in another chair just inside the door, continually to smoke a great pipe which the dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to take it from his lips under any pretence whatever, were it only for one minute at a time, if he dared. These arrangements completed, Mr. Quilp looked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and remarked that he called that comfort. The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have called it comfort also but for two drawbacks; one was that he could by no exertion sit easily in his chair, the seat of which was very hard, angular, slippery, and slop ing; the other that tobacco-smoke always caused him great internal discomposure and annoyance. But as he was quite a creature of Mr. Quilp's and had a thousand reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile, and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could assume. This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute from Bevis Marks in the city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a wen, a protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He wore a long black surtout reaching nearly to his ancles, short black trousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a blueish gray. He had a cringing manner but a very harsh voice, and his blandest smiles were so extremely forbidding, that to have had his company under the least repulsive circumstance, one would have wished him to be out of temper that he might only scowl. winking very much in the anguish of his pipe, that he someQuilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was times shuddered when he happened to inhale its full flavor, and that he constantly fanned the smoke from him, was quite overjoyed, and rubbed his hands with glee. «fill your pipe again and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, "Smoke away you dog," said Quilp, turning to the boy; or I'll put the sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon your tongue." Luckily the boy was case hardened, and would have smoked a small lime-kiln if any body had treated him with it. Where fore he only muttered a brief defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered. "Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like the Grand Turk?" said Quilp. ings were by no tate. This is the way to keep off fever," said Quilp, "this is off all the time we stop here-smoke away you dog or you the way to keep off every calamity of life. We'll never leave shall swallow the pipe.' friend, when the dwarf had given his boy this last gentle ad- is dead," returned Quilp. "He! he he!" laughed Mr. Brass, "oh, very good!" 'How kind it is of you, sir, to wait 'till then!" said Brass. oh, dear!-the very instant the law allowed 'em. Some peo"Some people, sir, would have sold or removed the goodsple, sir, would have " ing of such a parrot as you," interposed the dwarf. "The gal," returned the boy. "Are you deaf?” "He's very bad," replied the weeping child. |