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London, in the course of a year, by holding horses alone. unmindful of their old companion and friend, ma'am, others And undoubtedly it would have been a very large one, if only are in the habit of calling upon me to this day and saying, a twentieth part of the gentlemen without grooms had had 'Mr. Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours I ever spent eccasion to alight; but they had n't; and it is often an ill-in my life were spent in this office-were spent, sir, upon this natured circumstance like this, which spoils the most ingenious estimate in the world.

Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now lingering as some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about him; and now darting at full speed up a bye street, as he caught a glimpse of some distant horsemen going lazily up the shady side of the road, and promising to stop at every door. But on they all went, one after another, and there was not a penny stirring. "I wonder," thought the boy, "if one of these gentlemen knew there was nothing in the cupboard at home, whether he 'd stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted to stop somewhere, that I might earn a trifle?"

He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of repeated disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest, when there approached towards him a little clattering jingling four-wheeled chaise, drawn by a little obstinate looking rough-coated poney, and driven by a little fat placid-faced ald gentleman. Beside the little old gentleman sat a little old lady, plump and placid like himself, and the pony was coming along at his own pace and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole concern. If the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony replied by shaking his head. It was plain that the utmost the pony would consent to do was to go in his own way up any street that the old gentleman particularly wished to traverse, but that it was an understanding between them that he must do this after his own fashion or not at all.

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very stool;' but there was never one among the number, ma'am,
attached as I have been to many of them, of whom I augured
such bright things as I do of your only son."
"Oh dear!" said the old lady. "How happy you do make
us when you tell us that, to be sure?"

"I tell you, ma'am," said Mr. Witherden, "what I think as an honest man, which, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God. I agree with the poet in every particular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or a humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point of Workmanship, to an honest man-or woman-or woman."

66

Any thing that Mr. Witherden can say of me," observed a small, quiet voice, "I can say with interest of him, I am sure."

"It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance," said the notary, "to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birth-day, and I hope I know how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr. Garland, my dear sir, that we may mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious occasion."

To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might. There appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when it was over, the old gentleman said that though he said it who should not, he believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents than Abel Garland had been to his.

"Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for a great many years until we were well enough off -coming together when we were no longer young, and then blessed with one child who has always been dutiful and affectionate-why, it's a source of great happiness to us both, sir."

As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little turn-out, that the old gentleman looked at him, and Kit rising and putting his hand to his hat, the old gentleman inti- | mated to the pony that he wished to stop, to which proposal "Of course it is, I have no doubt of it," returned the nothe pony (who seldom objected to that part of his duty) gra- tary, in a sympathising voice. "It's the contemplation of ciously acceded. this sort of thing that makes me deplore my fate in being bachelor. There was a young lady once, sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first respectability-but that's weakness-Chuckster, being in Mr. Abel's articles."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Kit. "I'm sorry you stepped, sir. I only meant did you want your horse minded." "I'm going to get down in the next street," returned the old gentleman. "If you like to come on after us, you may have the job.

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Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran off at a sharp angle to inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and then went off at a tangent to another lamp-post on the other side. Having satisfied himself that they were of the same pattern and materials, he came to a stop, apparently absorbed in meditation.

"Will you go on, sir," said the old gentleman, gravely, "or are we to wait here for you till it's too late for our appoint

ment.

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The pony remained immoveable.

"Oh

"Fie upon

you naughty whisker," said the old lady. you! I am ashamed of such conduct." The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for he trotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more until he came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the words "Witherden-Notary." Here the old gentleman got out and helped out the old lady, and then took from under the seat a nosegay, resembling in shape and dimensions a full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut short off. This, the old lady carried into the house with a staid and stately air, and the old gentlemen (who had a club foot) followed close upon her.

They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices, into the front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office. The day being very warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open, and it was easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside. At first there was great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet, succeeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by the listener to be that of Mr. Witherden Rotary, was heard to exclaim a great many times, "oh, delicious!" "oh, fragrant indeed!" and a nose, also supposed to be the property of that gentleman, was heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of exceeding pleasure.

the

46

"I brought it in honor of the occasion, sir," said the old lady. Ab! an occasion indeed, ma'am ; an occasion which does honor to me ma'am, honor to me," rejoined Mr. Witherden “I have had many a gentleman articled to me, Some of them are now rolling in riches

the notary.
ma'am, many a one.

He has

a
"You see, Mr. Witherden," said the old lady, "that Abel
has not been brought up like the run of young men.
always had a pleasure in our society, and always been with
Abel has never been absent from us for a day, has he,
my dear?"

us.

"Never, my dear," returned the old gentleman, "except when he went to Margate one Saturday with Mr. Tomkinley, that had been a teacher at that school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but you remember he was very ill after that, my dear; it was quite a dissipation."

"He was not used to it, you know," said the old lady, "and he could n't bear it, that 's the truth. Besides he had no comfort in being there without us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with."

"That was it, you know," interposed the same small quiet voice that had spoken once before. "I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to think that the sea was between us-oh, I never shall forget what I felt when I first thought that the sea was between us!

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"Very natural under the circumstances," observed the notary. "Mr. Abel's feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature ma'am, and his father's nature, and human nature. I trace the same current now, flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceedings.-I am about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of the articles which Mr. Chuckster will witness; and, placing my finger upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice-do n't be alarmed ma'am, it is merely a form of law-that I deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr. Abel will place his name againt the other wafer, repeating the same cabalistic words, and the business is over. Ha, ha, ha! You see how easily these things are done!"

There was a short silence, apparently while Mr. Abel went through the prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet were renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of wine-glasses and a great talkativeness on the part of every body. In about a quarter of an hour Mr. Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and his face inflamed with wine) appeared at the door, and condescending to address Kit by the jocose appellation of 'Young Snob,' informed him that the visiters were coming out.

Out they came forthwith; Mr. Witherden, who was short,

Master Humphrey's Clock:

eyes in which old forests gleamed-then trod impatiently th track their prisoned feet had worn-and stopped and gave again. Men in their dungeons stretched their cramped col limbs and curst the stone that no bright sky could warm. The ed them to the day. The light, creation's mind, was every flowers that sleep by night opened their gentle eyes and tam where, and all things owned its power.

chubby, fresh-colored, brisk, and pompous, leading the old stood motionless behind their bars, and gazed on flutterin lady with extreme politeness, and the father and son fellow-boughs and sunshine peeping through some little window, w ing them, arm-in-arm. Mr. Abel, who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of the same age as his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in face and figure, though wanting something of his full, round, cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid reserve, other respects, in the neatness of the dress, and even in the In all club-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely alike. Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr. Abel got into a little box behind, which had evidently been made for his express accommodation, and smiled at every body present by turns, beginning with his mother, and ending with the pony. There was then a great to-do to make the pony hold up his head that the bearing-reign might be fastened; at last even this was effected; and the old gentleman, taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his pocket to find a sixpence for Kit.

He had no sixpences, neither had the old lady, nor Mr. Abel, nor the notary, nor Mr. Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too much, but there was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave it to the boy.

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There," he said, jokingly, "I'm coming here again next Monday, at the same time, and mind you're here my lad to work it out."

"Thank you, sir," said Kit.

"I'll be sure to be here."

He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so, especially Mr. Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going home, or a determination that he would not go any where else, (which was the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify himself, and went his way also. Having expended his treasure in such purchases as he knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting some seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could, so elated with his success and great good fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and the old man would have arrived before him.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation of hope and fear as in some far off figure imperfectly seen in the clear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But although she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for what he had said at their last meeting, it was always a relief to find, when they came nearer to each other, that the person who approached was not he, but a stranger; for even if she had not dreaded the effect which the sight of him might have wrought upon her fellow traveller, she felt that to bid farewell to any body and most of all to him who had been so faithful and so true, was more than she could bear. It was enough to leave the dumb things behind, and objects that were insensible both to her love and sorrow. To have passed from her only other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, would have wrung her heart indeed.

now,

Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends who are tenderly attached will seperate with the usual look, the usual pressure of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow, while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of uttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than certainties? We do not shun our dying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter the whole remainder of a life.

The town was glad with morning light; places that had been shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, felt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the rays of sun starting through key-hole and cranny in the door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in dens

changing a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in si The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or ex lence. Bright and happy as it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted streets, from which like bodies without souls all habitual character and expression had dev parted, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale people whom they met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, was powerless and faint in the full glory of the sun. as the sickly lamp which had been here and there left burning

men's abodes which yet lay between them and the outskirts, Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of this aspect began to melt away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts and coaches rumbling by active, then a crowd. The wonder was at first to see a first broke the charm, then others came, then others yet more tradesman's window open, but it was a rare thing soon to se one closed; then smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and and servant girls, looking lazily in all directions but ther sashes were thrown up to let in air, and doors were opened brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkm who spoke of country fairs, and told of wagons in the mews with awnings and all things complete, and gallant swaiss boot, which another hour would see upon their journey.

and business was already rife. The old man looked ab
This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of com
merce and great traffic, where many people were resorting
him with a startled and bewildered gaze, for these wer
places that he hoped to shun.
lip, and drew the child along by narrow courts and winding
He pressed his finger on his
ways, nor did he seers at ease until they had left it far be
that ruin and self-murder were crouching in every street, and
hind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring
would follow if they scented them; and that they could not
fly too fast.

borhood, where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neigi windows patched with rags and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there. The shops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers were pinched and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded gentility essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked means to rake its last feeble stand; but tax-gather and creditor came there hardly less squalid and manifest than that which had long as elsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was ago submitted and given up the game.

the camp of wealth pitch their tents round about it for many This was a wide, wide track-for the humble followers of a mile-but its character was still the same. Damp rotten

houses, many to let, many yet building, many half built and mouldering away-lodgings, where it would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let or those who came to take-children, scantily fed and clothed, spread over every street and sprawling in the dust-scolding mothers, stamping their slipshood feet with noisy threats upon the pavement shabby fathers, hurrying with dispirited looks to the occupa tion which brought them "daily bread" and little moremangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving their trades in parlors and kitchens and back rooms and garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same roofor timber pillaged from houses burnt down and blackened aut brick-fields, skirting gardens paled with staves of old caska, blistered by the flames-mounds of doek-weed, nettles, coarse grass and oyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion-small dissenting chapels to teach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries of Earth, and plenty of new churches, erected with a little superfluous wealth, to show the way to Heaven.

dwindled and dwindled away until there were only small gat
den patches bordering the road, with many a summer-house
At length these streets, becoming more straggling yet,
innocent of paint, and built of old timber, or some fragments
of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks that grew about
it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-stools and tight-stick-

snails. To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two, plots of ground in front, laid out in angular beds with box borders and narrow paths between, where footstep er strayed to make the gravel rough. Then came the ic house freshly painted in green and white, with tea-garand a bowling-green, spurning its old neighbor with the e-trough where the wagons stopped; then fields; and then houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns, some with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife. Then e a turnpike; then fields again with trees and hay-stacks: a hill; and on the top of that the traveller might stop, and oking back at old Saint Paul's looming through the smoke, ross peeping above the cloud (if the day were clear) and tering in the sun; and casting his eyes upon the Babel out which it grew until he traced it down to the furthest outts of the invading army of bricks and mortar, whose stalay for the present nearly at his feet-might feel at last the was clear of London.

Tear such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old a and his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not ther they were bound) sat down to rest. She had had the caution to furnish her basket with some slices of bread and at, and here they made their frugal breakfast. The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauof the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flow, and the thousand exquisite scents and sounds that floated he air,-deep joys to most of us, but most of all to those ose life is in a crowd, or who live solitary in great cities as he bucket of a human well,—sank into their breasts and de them very glad. The child had repeated her artless yers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she I ever done in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose her lips again. The old man took off his hat-he had no mory for the words-but he said amen, and they were very There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with ange plates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had en pored whole evenings, wondering whether it was true every word, and where those distant countries, with the rious names, might be. As she looked back upon the place had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind. "Dear grandfather," she said, "only that this place is ettier and a great deal better than the real one, if that in e book is like it, I feel as if we were both Christian, and id down on this grass all the cares and troubles we brought ith us; never to take them up again."

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"No-never to return-never to return," replied the old an, waving his hand toward the city. "Thou and I are ee of it now, Nell. They shall never lure us back." "Are you tired?" said the child, "are you sure you don't el ill from this long walk?"

"I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away," as his reply. "Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be furer away-a long, long way further. We are too near to top, and be at rest. Come!" There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the hild laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet before etting forth to walk again. She would have the old man efresh himself in this way too, and making him sit down pon the grass, cast the water on him with her hands, and red it with her simple dress.

"I can do nothing for myself, my darling," said the grandather. "I do n't know how it is I could once, but the time's one. Do n't leave me, Nell, say that thou 'lt not leave me. loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my ear, I must die!"

He laid his head upon her shoulder, and moaned piteously. The time had been, and a very few days before, when the child ould not have restrained her tears, and must have wept with im. But now she soothed him with gentle and tender words, miled at his thinking they could ever part, and rallied him heerfully upon the jest He was soon calmed and fell asleep, inging to himself in a low voice, like a little child.

He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The oad was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields fcorn, above which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the ark trilled out her happy song. The air came laden with the agrance it caught upon its way, and the bees, upborne upon s scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy satisfaction as ey floated by.

They were now in the open country; the houses were very w, and scattered at long intervals, often miles apart. Ocasionally they came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some

with a chair or low board put across the open door to keep the scrambling children from the road, others shut up close while all the family were working in the fields. These were often the commencement of a little village: and after an interval came a wheelwright's shed, or perhaps a blacksmith's forge; then a thriving farm, with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the low wall and scampering away when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their freedom. There, were dull pigs, too, turning up the ground in search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other in their quest; plump pigeons skimming round the roof or strutting on the eaves; and ducks and geese, far more graceful in their conceit, waddling awkwardly about the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The farmyard passed, then came the little inn; the humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman's; then the lawyers's and the parson's at whose dread names the beer-shoptrembled; the church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees; then there were a few more cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty well. The came the trim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open roads again.

They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded briskly forward.

They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and still kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the morning. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when, drawing near another cluster of laborers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy a draught of milk.

It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being repulsed. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In this, the people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she stopped at one where the family were seated round a table-chiefly because there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather and would feel for hers.

There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner preferred, than granted. The eldest boy ran to fetch some milk, the second dragged two stools toward the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.

"God save you, master," said the old cottager, in a thin piping voice, "are you travelling far?"

"Yes, sir, a long way," replied the child; for her grandfather appealed to her.

"From London?" inquired the old man. The child said yes.

Ah! he had been in London many a time-used to go there often, once, with wagons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been there last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like enough! He had changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was a long time, and eightyfour a great age, though there was some he had known that had lived to very hard upon a hundred-and not so hearty as he, neither-no, nothing like it.

"Sit thee down, master, in the elbow-chair," said the old man, knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so, sharply. "Take a pinch out o' that box; I do n't take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find it wakes me up some times, and yet ye 're but a boy to me. I should have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he 'd lived, but they listed him for a so'ger-he come back home, though, for all he had but one poor leg. He always said he 'd be buried near the sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was a baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true-you can see the place with your own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever since."

He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes, said she need n't be afraid that he was going to talk about that any more. He did n't wish to trouble no body, and if he had troubled any body by what he said, he asked pardon, that was all.

The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and selecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty meal. The furniture of the room was very homely, of course-a few rough chairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of crockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few common-colored scripture subjects in frames

upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a kettle comprised the whole. But every thing was clean and neat, and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of comfort and content to which she had long been accustomed. "How far is it to any town or village?" she asked of the husband.

"A matter of good five miles, my dear," was the reply; "but you 're not going on to-night?

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"Yes, yes, Nell," said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs. "Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk till midnight."

"There's a good barn hard by, master," said the man, "or there's travellers' lodgings, I know, at the Plow an Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem a little tired, and unless you 're very anxious to get on-"

"Yes, yes, we are," returned the old man fretfully. "Further away, dear Nell, pray further away."

"We must go on, indeed," said the child, yielding to his restless wish. "We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready, grandfather."

But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that one of her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother too, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and applied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully, and with such a gentle hand -rough-grained and hard though it was with work-that the child's heart was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent "God bless you!" nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak until they had left the cottage some distance behind. When she turned her head, she saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing in the road watching them as they went; and so, with many waves of the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not without tears, they parted company.

They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they they had done yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching pretty briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and looked earnestly at Nell.

"Did n't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder," he said. "Yes, sir," replied the child.

"Ah! they asked me to look out for you," said the man. "I'm going your way. Give me your hand-jump up, master."

This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious carriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she fell asleep, for the first time that day.

strayed among the tombs; for there the ground was soft, an easy to their feet. As they passed behind the church, tire they heard voices near at hand, and presently came on the who had spoken.

They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes apa the grass, and so busily engaged as to be at first unconscion of intruders. It was not difficult to divine that they were of class of itinerant showmen-exhibitors of the freaks of Pund -for, perched cross-legged upon a tombstone behind them was the figure of that hero himself, his nose and chin as hook ed and his face as beaming as usual. Perhaps his impertur bable character was never more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual equable smile notwithstanding that h body was dangling in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and shapeless, while his long peaked cap, unequally balanced against his exceedingly slight legs, threatened every instant to bring him toppling down.

In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and in part jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons of the Drama. The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the doctor, the foreign gentleman who not being familiar with the language is unable in the represents tion to express his ideas otherwise than by the utterance of the word "Shallabalah" three distincts times, the radical neighbor who will by no means admit that a tin bell is an or gan, the executioner, and the devil, were all here. Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make some neediä, repairs in the stage arrangements; for one of them was en gaged in binding together a small gallows with thread, whe the other was intent upon fixing a new black wig, with the and of a small hammer and some tacks, upon the head of the ad cal neighbor, who had been beaten bald.

They raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were close upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of curiosity. One of them, the actual ex hibiter no doubt, was a little merry-faced man, with a twink ling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character. The other-that was he who took the money-had rather a careful and ca tious look, which was perhaps inseparable from his occupe tion also.

The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and following the old man's eyes, he observed that per haps that was the first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be remarked, seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most flourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.)

"Why do you come here to do this?" said the old man, sitting down beside them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.

"Why you see," rejoined the little man, "we 're putting up for to-night at the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the present company undergoing repair." "No!" cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen,

She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn up a bye lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and pointing to some trees at a very short dis-"why not, eh? why not?" tance before them, said that the town lay there, and that they had better take the path which they would see, leading through the church-yard. Accordingly, towards this spot they directed their weary steps.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

The sun was setting when they reached the wicket-gate at which the path began, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjustalike, it shed its warm tint even upon the resting places of the dead, and bade them be of good hope for its rising on the morning. The church was old and gray, with ivy clinging to the walls and round the porch. Shunning the tombs, it crept about the mounds, beneath which slept poor humble men, twining for them the first wreaths they had ever won, but wreaths less liable to wither and far more lasting in their kind, than some which were graven deep in stone and marble, and told in pompous terms of virtues meekly hidden for many a year, and only revealed at last to executors and mourning legatees.

The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the graves, was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation from the dead parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's text that this was what all flesh came to ; a lean ass who had sought to expound it also, without being qalified and ordained, was pricking his ears in an empty pound hard by, and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly neighbor. The old man and the child quitted the gravel path and

"Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the interest, would n't it?" replied the little man. "Would you care a ha' penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and without his wig? certainly not.

"Good?" said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. "Are you going to show 'em to-night? are you?"

"That is the intention, governor," replied the other; "and unless I'm much mistaken Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we 've lost through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much."

The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive of the estimates he had formed of the traveller's finances.

To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner. replied, as he twiched Punch off the tombstone and flung hìm into the box.

"I do n't care if we have n't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you stood in front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you 'd know human natur' better." "Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch," rejoined his companion. "When you played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in the fairs, you believed in everything-except ghosts. But now you 're a universal mistruster. I never see a man so changed."

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tented philosopher. "I know better now, and p'raps I'm "Never mind," said Mr. Codlin, with the air of a discon sorry for it."

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Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised them, Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his friend.

"Look here; here 's all this Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. You haven't got a needle and thread, I suppose? The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal performer. Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said timid

ly:

"I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me try to mend it for you? I think I can do it neater than you could."

Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable. Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her task, and accomplished it to a miracle. While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her helpless companion. When she had finished her work, he thanked her, and inquired whither they were travelling.

"N-no further to night, I think," said the child, looking towards her grandfather.

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'If you 're wanting a place to stop at," the man remarked, "I should advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it the long, low, white house there. It's very cheap." The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in the churchyard all night if his new acquaintance had staid there too. As he yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous assent, they all rose and walked away together; he keeping close to the box of puppets in which he was quite absorbed, the merry little man carrying it slung over his arm by a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly having hold of her grandfather's hand, and Mr. Codlin sauntering slowly behind casting up at the church tower and neighboring trees such looks as he was accustomed in town practice to direct to drawing-room and nursery windows, when seeking for a profitable spot on which to plant the show.

The public house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady, who made no objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There was no other company in the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very thankful that they had fallen upon such good quarters. The landlady was very much astonished to learn that they had come all the way from London, and appeared to have no little curiosity touching their farther destination. The child parried her inquiries as well as she could, and with no great trouble, for finding that they appeared to give her pain, the old lady desisted.

"These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time," she said, taking her into the bar; "and your best plan will be to sup with them. Meantime you shall have a little taste of something that'll do you good, for I 'm sure you must want it after all you 've gone through to-day. Now, do n't look after the old gentleman, because when you've drank that, he shall have some too."

As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or to touch any thing in which he was not the first and greatest sharer, the old lady was obliged to help him first. When they had been thus refreshed, the whole house hurried away into an empty stable where the show stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith exhib

ited.

And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at the Pan's pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station on one side of the checked drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, and putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all questions and remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal feint of being his most intimate private friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and glorious existence in that temple, and that he was at all times and under every circumstance the same intelligent and joyful person that the spectators then beheld him. All this Mr. Codlin did with the air of a man who had made up his mind for the worst and was quite resigned; his eye slowly wandering about during the briskest repartee to observe the effect upon the audience, and particularly the impression made upon the landlord and landlady, which might be productive of very important results in connection with the supper.

Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety for the whole performance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary contributions were showered in with a liberality

which testified yet more strongly to the general delight.Among the laughter none was more loud and frequent than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her head drooping on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee.

The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would not leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed. He, happily insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile and admiring face to all that his new friends said; and it was not until they retired yawning to their room, that he followed the child up stairs.

It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they were to rest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had hoped for none so good. The old man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged that Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done for so many nights. She hastened to him, and sat there till he slept.

There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in her room, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the silence. The sight of the old church and the graves about it in the moonlight, and the dark trees whispering among themselves, made her more thoughtful than before. She closed the window again, and sitting down upon the bed, thought of the life that was before them. She had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was gone, they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it, and an emergency might come when its worth to them would be increased a hundred fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never produce it unless their case was absolutely desperate, and no other resource was left them.

Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her. At sight of the strange room and its unaccus tomed objects she started up in alarm, wondering how she had been moved from the familiar chamber in which she seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been conveyed. But another glance around called to her mind all that had lately passed, and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.

It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a great number of good people were buried there,) passing on from one to another with increasing interest.

It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in air. First one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but talking to himself. Another answered, and he called again, but louder than before; then another spoke and then another; and each time the first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs lower down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey churca turrets and old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled and dropped again, and still went on; and all this noisy contention amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches and frequent change of place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay so still beneath the moss and turf below, and the useless strife in which they had worn away their lives.

Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down, and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which had started from some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of whitened-green moulder

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