mistress. Then he singled out a broken-down doorway, or rickety chimney-stack, or half-open window with a fat child staring out of it. So he went on till at last it seemed there was nothing left by way of variety except to sketch the houses upside down. But one afternoon, soon after the post came in -at which time we may mention that this exemplary artist was taken with a passion for sketching the face of every man, woman, and child who happened to call for letters-one afternoon he appeared more than usually excited by the beauty of the scene presented by the main street of Little Mawworm. His window, we have said, was a front window. It was, moreover, precisely over the little window with a wooden panel and knocker, at which the public applied for letters, information, and postage stamps. On this particular afternoon, our friend the artist fixed himself at the window with his chin upon the sill, apparently in an ecstasy of pictorial enthusiasm. Occasionally, when he thought he was observed by some one below, he would withdraw his head abruptly, no doubt for the purpose of concealing the intensity of his emotion. He had just partially withdrawn his face from the window, but kept close enough to hear what was said below, when there comes a rap at the little post-office window. What a start that excitable artist gives! Perhaps he is annoyed at being disturbed. He approaches his head closer to the window, and hears a girl ask in a shrill voice— Please, ma'am, be there any letters for A. B. C. ?" "A. B. what ?" asked the postmistress, sharply.

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"A. B. C.," repeated the girl in a measured chant, as if she was beginning to say her alphabet.

"That's not it!" said the postmistress, and slammed the door in her face, as if the girl had been saying a lesson, and broke down in it.

"Stupid little fool !" ejaculated the artist, as the girl turned slowly away from the door. "She's made a mull of it-that's clear!"

However, the girl had not gone far down the street when a sudden idea seemed to strike her, and she ran back to the post-office, knocked at the little trap-door, and exclaimed as soon as it was opened

Please, ma'am, I've got it now! 'Twas A. B. X. !”

Up jumped the artist, on went his Kossuth hat and pepper and salt paletot, and, with drawing-book under his arm, he was in the street in a trice.

Meantime, the postmistress, after some more parley with the little girl, handed her a letter, and slammed the door once more. The girl, putting the letter in her bosom, tripped away down the street, occasionally stopping to perform a solitary little game of hop-scotch on the pavement, with an oystershell or a bit of crockery ware. The enthusiastic artist follows at a respectful distance, and whenever the girl is engaged in her peripatetic recreation, appears to take a sudden interest in the outline of the clouds overhead. At last, the girl makes a sudden rush into a small public-house by the roadside, and is instantaneously followed by our friend with the drawing-book. "All right, mother! Here 'tis. Warn't I clever to mind the A. B. X. ?"

Whilst the girl appeals to her mother for approbation, in comes the artist and asks for a pint of Burton "to wash the dust out of his mouth this hot afternoon."

The woman puts the letter the little girl gives her in her pocket, and draws the artist his pint of Burton. He is uncommonly talkative that artist, and seems fond of malt liquors, for he has two more pints of Burton, and drinks slowly as if to enjoy it the more.

"Nice, civil-spoken gent, that !" said the landlady, as he left the house. "So lucky, too, that he dropped in at the nick of time to address that there bothering letter to Mr. Spottle !"

The artist goes straight to the post-office; says he has had a lucrative offer for taking twenty-four sketches of the scenery round Cheltenham; pays for his lodging; slings his black leather travelling knapsack over his shoulders and starts away for Great Mawworm. Here, however, he does not stay, but gets on the top of a stage-coach starting for Cheltenham. Then takes the railway, and after some hours' travelling and stopping and changing of trains, finds himself safely deposited at the railway station, Rentworth.

Meantime, our artist has undergone a considerable transformation. In fact, we should hardly know him again. He has left his knapsack and drawing materials somewhere on the road, his Kossuth hat is exchanged for a greasy travelling cap, his pepper and salt paletot has given place to a rough shootingcoat, and he wears leather gaiters and thick hobnailed halfboots. Moreover, his imposing beard has disappeared, and you see a smooth shaven chin in lieu of it. Apparently he is a gamekeeper or groom in quest of a situation, for he saunters

down the High Street at Rentworth, and making up to the "Swampshire Arms" in a half-indolent fashion, gradually sidles into the stable-yard, and gets into conversation with the ostler about the weather and the crops and the last Winterbourne steeple-chase, until they both appear mutually pleased with each other, and retire to the tap to have a "glass of summut warm."

What their conversation is inside the tap we do not pretend to say. But, at the termination of this impromptu convivial meeting, the ostler emerges slightly exhilarated with liquor, and particularly affectionate towards our quondam artist, for he earnestly begs him to accept his black terrier Rose and her whole litter of puppies. Also three ferrets, and an old fowlingpiece. These handsome offers our friend declines with virtuous self-denial, and proceeds to light and smoke his pipe, seated on the shafts of a coburg cart in the inn-yard, whilst the ostler devotes himself vigorously to the task of washing the wheels of an omnibus in order to work off the effects of his potations in the tap.

Presently a man in very shabby clothes, a battered old hat, and shoes down at heel, with a face bloated from intemperance, swaggers with an attempt at being at his ease across the road, and makes his way toward the tap.

The late artist takes his pipe from his mouth, and says to

the ostler

"I say, old fellow, is that the cove you spoke of just now?” The ostler, poising one moment in the air the bucket of water he was about to fling over the wheels, nodded and winked by way of reply, and then emptied the bucket with a jerk.

Up got the other, and peeps through the open doorway of the tap. The shabby-looking man asks if there is any letter for him; whereupon the barmaid hands him a letter, directed— Mr. Spottle,

Swampshire Arms,

Rentworth,

in a handwriting the late artist is pretty familiar with. Then Mr. Spottle, for Mr. Spottle it is, asks for a penn'orth of gin, drinks it off, wipes his mouth with the cuff of his coat, and shambles out of the tap into the street again.

The ci-devant artist dodges him down the street, then meets him as if by accident round the corner, touches his cap (civility costs nothing), and says→

แ Beg your pardon.

Mr. Spottle does not

But is your name Spottle ?" seem particularly well pleased to be asked his name, and commences backing into the road as if he meant to make a bolt.

"I'm a poor man, rather hard up, Mr. Spottle, and I wants a situation," said the other.

"What the deuce d'ye come to me for ?" growled Spottle, somewhat reassured by this mode of address.

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'Cause, you see, Mr. Spottle, I wants to get into this here madhouse over at Clawthorp as a keeper, and I thought may be you'd speak a word for me, as you know'd the doctor."

"How the deuce can I speak a word for you, young man," inquired Spottle, gradually assuming some faint touch of his ancient pomposity, "when I've never set eyes on you before this minute? What's your name, young man?"

"Grub," said the other, touching his cap. "Daniel Grub." "Grub? hem! Queerish name! Well, Mr. Daniel Grub, and so you're hard up in the world?"

"Haven't more than nineteen shillings and sixpence-halfpenny to bless myself with, Mr. Spottle.'

"Hem! Nineteen and sixpence-halfpenny! That's something-something," rejoined Spottle, eyeing Mr. Grub with increasing favour.

"And if, Mr. Spottle, you could manage to say a word for me to the doctor-I'd willingly- "Mr. Grub here fumbled his cap, as if he felt he was treading on dangerous ground. "Speak on, young man," said Spottle, condescendingly. "If three half-crowns would make it worth your while to throw in a good word for me

Mr. Spottle's hand was gently extended, and his eye twinkled acquiescence. But Mr. Grub now held back.

"I say, not so fast, Mr. Spottle. Suppose I don't get the place, arter all? ”

"Young man, a word from me to Dr. Crayfoot, and your

affair's settled."

"Well, half down and half when I get the place; and, I tell'ee what, I'll give half-a-crown in for luck. now!"

There,

Mr. Spottle's hand closed like a vice upon the five shillings, and then slipped back into his pocket.

"Take a drop in the tap?" inquired Mr. Grub.

"I don't mind if I do, young man. I'll put you in the way of dealing with the doctor. Shouldn't wonder if I didn't

step along to Clawthorp with you, for I've got a letter for the

doctor."

Mr. Grub's eyes shone for a moment like a cat's at the sight of a mouse in a trap. Then they walked back to the Swampshire Arms. Here, in the comfortable recesses of the taproom, Mr. Spottle unbent himself in the most gracious manner. He described in glowing colours the advantages offered by Clawthorp asylum: attributed his own retirement from that institution not, as was vulgarly supposed, to any tyrannical interference on the part of the visiting magistrates, but simply to the exhortations of a maiden aunt in the grocery line, who insisted upon his taking up his abode with her, to assist in managing a lucrative and fast-increasing business. He magnified his influence over Dr. Crayfoot; finally producing the identical letter Mr. Grub had directed in the public-house at Little Mawworm, and, dropping his voice to a gurgling whisper, informed him it was a despatch of peculiar importance, and that Dr. Crayfoot's last words were

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Spottle, there's no man alive can manage this affair except you! Spottle, I depend upon your bringing me the letter without fail! Spottle, give me your hand!"

And a great deal more Mr. Spottle added, which was extremely interesting to Mr. Daniel Grub, but not necessary to communicate to the reader.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS.

MR. USHERWOOD was brought up to London in the express train, and comfortable lodgings found for him and Lady Maud, not far from the Nugents. On his first arrival, the physician detected so much general disturbance of system, that it was thought expedient to send for Agatha and Jessie, at present, as the reader will remember, staying with their aunt in Scotland.

Gertrude, at her father's request, removed to the same lodging, and passed much of her time by his bedside, reading to him when he was able to bear it, at other times sitting quietly by him, and holding his hand in hers.

The few days which had elapsed since the night of the La onde's ball, had mitigated the anguish of mind from which