"And therefore," was well among 'em agin," interrupted Jem. continued the senator, "I shall lodge humbly." And Capstick kept his word; for he hired a three-pair floor and an attic in Long Acre; and having purchased a framed and glazed copy of Magna Charta to hang over the chimney-piece, he began very deeply to consider his manifold duties as Member of Parliament. With varying feelings St. Giles had watched the progress of the election. He had-it was his duty-shouted and bellowed for St. James. Nevertheless, the final prosperity of the muffin-man; his early benefactor, scarcely displeased him. Again, too, he thought that, should the young lord refuse to employ him-for he had still been baulked in his endeavour to see St. James-the new member for Liquorish would need new attendants to illustrate his dignity. And Bright Jem had, of course, revealed to Capstick all the transport's story; for the felon had made a clean breast of his mystery to Jem, on their way to Kingcup, the schoolmaster. And so, the election revel over, with a lightened heart St. Giles set out for London. Should St. James fail him, he was sure of Capstick. If human misery demand human sympathy, the condition of Tom Blast is not to be despised. It is our trust that the reader followed him when, oppressed by the weight of gold, he tripped and staggered from the Olive Branch, and gasped and sweated as he reached the field, wherein he solaced his fatigue with the secret thought of future fortune bringing future reformation. It was with this strengthening impulse that he flung the iron box, goldcrammed, into the middle of a pond. There it lay, like one of Solomon's brazen kettles in the sea, containing a tremendous genius -an all-potent magician, when once released to work among men. And Tom would go to London, and in a few days, when Liquorish had subsided from its patriotic intoxication to its old sobriety, he would return with some trusty fellow-labourer in the world's hard ways, and angle for the box. Unhappy, fated Blast! flung his gold-fish into Doctor Gilead's pond. He had enriched the rector's waters with uncounted guineas. Next, of course, to "the fishpools in Heshbon," the Doctor loved that pond, for it contained carp of astonishing size and intelligence. Often would the Doctor seek the waters, and whilst feeding their tenants— tenants-at-will-delight himself with their docility and dimensions. It was pretty, now to contemplate them in the pond, and now to fancy them in the dish. The Doctor knew the valuc, the pleasure He had of exercising the imagination; and thus made his carp equally ministrant to his immortal and his abdominal powers. Well, the pond was to be dragged for the election dinner, and the net becoming entangled with the box-but the Doctor has already revealed the happy accident. Tom Blast felt himself a blighted min. It was always his way. Any other thief would have hidden the goods in any other pond: but somehow or the other, the clergy had always been his misfortune. It was no use to struggle with fate he was doomed to bad luck. And when, too, he had made up his mind to such a quiet, comfortable life; when he had resolved upon respectability and an honest course; he felt his heart softened-it was too bad. Nothing was left for him but to return to the thief's wide home, London. He, poor fellow! could have subdued his desires to live even at Liquorish; for tobacco and gin were there; but, he knew it, in such a place he must starve. With the loss of the box came a quickened recollection of the loss of Jingo. Where could the child have wandered? Blast had learned that Tangle had been despoiled of his purse on the night of the greater robbery. Now, though the paternal heart was pleased to believe that such theft was the work of the boy, the father was nevertheless saddened at the child's disobedience. it was the boy's duty to rob, it was no less his duty to bring the stolen goods to his affectionate parent. In prosperity the human heart is less sensible of slight. Blast, whilst the believed possessor of countless guineas, scarcely thought of his son; but, stript of his wealth, his thoughts-it was very natural-did turn to his truant child and the purse he had stolen. If And now, reader, leave we the borough of Liquorish. Its street is silent, and save that certain of its dwellers have bought new Sunday coats and Sunday gowns-save that here and there in good man's house a new clock, with moralizing tick to human life, gives voice to silent time-save that on certain shelves new painted crockery illustrates at once the vanity and fragility of human hopes, no man would dream that a member of Parliament had within a few hours been manufactured in that dull abiding-place. And now, reader, with one drop of ink, we are again in London. Ha! We have descended in St. James's Square. The morning is very beautiful; and there, at the Marquis's door, smiling in the sun, is an old acquaintance, Peter Crossbone, apothecary ; the learned, disappointed man; for Crossbone had looked upon the escape of St. James from Dovesnest as an especial misfortune. All his professional days he had yearned for what he called distinguished practice. We doubt whether he would not have thought the Tower lions, being crown property, most important patients. For some time, he had pondered on the policy of visiting young St. James, the wounded phoenix that had flown from his hands. His will was good; all he wanted was a decent excuse for the intrusion; and at length fortune blessed him. He felt certain of the young lord's condescending notice, if he, the village apothecary, could show himself of service to him. The marquis's father was much persecuted by that luxurious scorpion, the gout, that epicurean feeder on the best fed. Now Crossbone had, in his own opinion, a specific cure for the torment; but he much doubted whether science would be his best recommendation to the young heir. No: he wanted faith in such an intercessor. And thus, with his brain in a pitch-black fog, he meditated, and saw no way. And now is he surrounded by mist, and now is he in a blaze of light. And what has broken through the gloom, and dawned a sudden day? That luminous concentration, that world of eloquent light-for how it talks!-a woman's eye. Suddenly Crossbone remembered a certain look of Clarissa. And that look was instantly a light to him that made all clear. That look showed the jealousy of the husband; the passion of the wife. Snipeton was a tyrant, and Clarissa a victim. And then compassion entered the heart of Crossbone, and did a little soften it. Yes; it would be a humane deed to assist the poor wife, and at the same time so delicious to delight his lordship. And then he-Crossbone knew it, he himself was so fit for the gay world. He was born, he would say, for the stones of London, and therefore hated the clay of the country. Reader, as you turned the present leaf, Crossbone knocked at the door, and stood with an uneasy smile upon his face, awaiting the porter, who, with a fine, critical ear for knocks, knew it could be nobody, and treated the nobody accordingly; that is, made the nobody wait. In due season, Crossbone and the porter stood face to face. "Is Lord St. James within?" And Crossbone tried to look the easy, town man. It would not do. Had he been a haystack, the porter would as readily have known the country growth. 66 Lordship within? Grunted the porter. "Don't know." But Mr. Crossbone knew better. It was his boast; he knew life; and therefore always paved its little shabby passages with silver other passages require gold, and only for that reason are not thought so shabby. True, therefore, to his principles, Mr. Crossbone sneaked a card and a dollar into the porter's hand. Ralph, take this card to his lordship. Good deal bothered, all of us, just now, added the porter. 66 "Good deal," corroborated Ralph, the son of Gum, and looking up and down at the apothecary, he went his way. Quick was his return; and with respectful voice he begged the gentleman to follow him. "We have met before, Mr. Crossbone," said St. James, and a shadow crossed his face. "I well remember." 66 No doubt, my lord. It was my happiness to employ my poor skill in a case of great danger. Need I say, how much I am rewarded by your lordship's present health?" 66 Humph! I have been worse beaten since then," said the young lord, and he bit his lip. He then with a gay air continued: Mr. Snipeton is, I believe, your patient?" "Bless your heart, my lord, that is, I beg your pardon,"— for Crossbone felt the familiarity of the benison-"Mr. Snipeton is no man's patient. King Charles of Charing Cross-saving his majesty's presence has just as much need of the faculty. When people, my lord, have no feelings they have little sickness: that's a discovery I've made, my lord, and old Snipeton bears it out. Now his wife-ha! that's a flower." Tender and beautiful,' cried St. James, with animation. "And her health, Mr. Crossbone ? 66 Delicate, my lord; delicate as a bird of paradise. I've often said it, she wasn't made for this world; it's too coarse and dirty. However, she 'll not be long out of her proper place. dying fast." "Dying!" exclaimed St. James. Dying-with what?" 66 No she's "Dying! Impossible! A more common malady than 's thought of, my lord," answered Crossbone. He then advanced a step, and projecting the third finger of the left hand, with knowing look observed" Ringworm, my lord." "Ha!" cried St. Giles, airily. "Ring-worm! Is that indeed so fatal ?" When, my lord, it fixes on the marriage finger of the young |