sketch to make - one rather difficult because of its cross lights, and because of a big column which stood out clear from the gloom of the choir loft and the deep-shadowed recess beneath the gallery.

But even then I was not alone. It was Founders' Day once more intent on the ceremonies.

The chapel was peopled.
Pendennis beside me,

"Yonder sit forty cherry-cheeked boys, thinking about home and holidays to-morrow. Yonder sit some threescore old gentlemen pensioners of the hospital, listening to the prayers and the psalms. You hear them coughing feebly in the twilight the old reverend black-gowns. A plenty of candles lights up this chapel, and this scene of age and youth, and early memories, and pompous death. How solemn the well-remembered prayers are, here uttered again in the place where in childhood we used to hear them!

"23. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth in his way.

"24. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand.

"25. I have been young, and now am old: yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.'

"As we came to this verse, I chanced to look up from my book toward the swarm of black-coated pensioners and among them among them-sat Thomas Newcome.

"His dear old head was bent down over his prayer-book; there was no mistaking him. He wore the black gown of the pensioners of the Hospital of Grey Friars. His Order

of the Bath was on his breast. He stood there among the poor brethren, uttering the responses to the psalm. The steps of this good man had been ordered hither by Heaven's decree: to this almshouse! Here it was ordained that a life all love, and kindness, and honour should end! I heard no more of prayers, and psalms, and sermon after that. How dared I to be in a place of mark, and he yonder among the poor? Oh, pardon, you noble soul! I ask forgiveness of you for being of a world that has so treated you — you my better, you the honest, and gentle, and good! I thought the service would never end, or the organist's voluntaries, or the preacher's homily."

Working away on my sketching stool, transferring the "darkles and lights," of the chapel's lines and masses to my paper, no wonder that I lost for the time all sense of proportion, and confounded fancy with fact. I had always known I should meet the Colonel just as I believe I shall yet meet Sam Weller and Micawber and Dot Perrybingle, and so, when an old brother, in his black gown, stole in while I worked and sat down noiselessly in a pew to my right, his face buried in his hands as he prayed, I was convinced that he was none other than my hero, until he raised his head and I caught sight of a gray beard. Even then I worked on, dallying over my surface, lifting my head for confirmation every time I heard a footfall in the antechapel beyond; forever on the watch for the thin, military figure, with the pale, smooth face.