himself, at the same time, at having found a new heroine of the domestic drama, who might eclipse all the virtuous poor men's daughters, and moral servants-of-all-work, who had ever figured in his most affecting pieces.

Vincent went over to the circus to bid a hasty good-bye to such of his late associates as were there in the morning; and then collecting his few things together they were very few-prepared to join his mother and sister. But before he left their little inn, he took a hearty farewell of Mr. Fogg, who was about to depart that morning for Henleyin-Arden, and rehearse his new piece with the dolls of Mr. Rosset's establishment.

"I leave you in better spirits now than when we parted that evening on the wharf," said Vincent; "but I am not the less grateful for what you have done for me."

"Belay there, belay," returned Mr. Fogg, as his mind reverted to the days of the "Lee Shore of Life." "I did but do my duty. Where there's enough for one, there's enough for two; and the man who would not share his crust with the hapless stranger, deserves not to defy the present or look forward with honest aspirations to the future."

"I wish I had something to give you as a keepsake," said Vincent. "Not but what I hope to see you again before long; still I wish you not to forget me altogether. I have nothing but my old pipe-it has been a long, long way with me; an old friend, who never withheld its consolation when I was hard-up or in trouble. Will you accept it?" "The calumet of amity!" observed Mr. Fogg, as he took the pipe from Vincent, and gazed at it with fondness. I shall preserve it for your sake."

"And may it serve you as faithfully as it has done me!" said Vincent; "for in its time, it has been everything but lodging. I never felt alone with that old pipe. In the dark dreary nights there was comfort and companionship in its glowing bowl; and by day, when the smoke floated about me, I used to fancy that it showed me how the clouds of trouble would disperse, if we had but a little patience. I have been very hungry too, when that old pipe has brought me my dinner."

During this speech of Vincent's, Mr. Fogg had been anxiously searching in his various pockets, and at last produced a pencil-case of common manufacture, which he placed in the hand of his friend.

"And that is all I have got to offer you in return," he said; "but it has been an 'umble and faithful servant also to me; the parent of my dramas."

"There is a seal on the top," continued Mr. Fogg; "a seal of green glass; it bears a ship tossed by the waves, and the motto, Such is life.' It suggested to me the 'Lee Shore;' and the motto, with variations, has furnished many a sentiment for the applause of the galleries."

"You could not give me anything I should prize more," said Vincent, as he took Mr. Fogg's humble offering.

They left the house together, and walked on until their journey turned two different ways; at which point, with every reiterated good wish and expression of gratitude, Vincent shook his friend warmly by the hand, and they parted. But as Mr. Fogg went up the street, he turned back many times to nod to Vincent, until he came to the corner;

and then, as the morning sunshine fell upon him, he waved his hand in final adieu, like a spirit departing in a bright tableau from one of his own pieces, with an air of good omen; and so went on his way.

And sunshine came to Vincent too-to him and to those so dear to to him; the sunshine of the heart, the bright hope of brighter times to come. Although it was still early, they had been long expecting him; and when he reached the hotel, carelessly swinging the bundle in his hand, which contained all his effects, the horses were immediately ordered; whilst Clara insisted upon his taking a second breakfast, watching everything he tasted as if he had been an infant-firmly believing that he had lived in a state of absolute starvation for some months; and nearly choking him with her anxiety to see that he was served with everything at once.

The carriage was soon up to the door, and they once more started to return to London. Ninety-one miles-it was nothing. Their conversation allowed them to take no heed of time or distance. The journey was nothing but a rapid succession of arrivals at inns, and ringing of bells by excited hostlers, for no other purpose, that could be made out, than to summon themselves, and call all those together who were already there in attendance; and taking out horses, and putting them to; and then, again, flying along the hard level road. Ninety-one miles all they had still to say would not have been got over in nine hundred, had the journey been of that length. Vincent remarked that Herbert paid for everything, and from a slender silk purse, with bright steel beads and sparkling tassels, by a curious coincidence precisely similar to the one which Clara gave him during their brief, but miserable interview in Mrs. Constable's hall! There could be no mistake about its fairy texture, or whose were the active and taper fingers that had manufactured it.

Afternoon came on; then twilight: yet as it got cooler, Clara, singularly enough, would not go under the head of the carriage, but made Vincent sit there, by the side of his mother, whilst she remained close to Herbert, shrouded in some complicated fashion or another-they themselves only knew how-by his large cloak, in a manner which appeared exceedingly comfortable. And before the moon was well up, the lights of London could be plainly seen reflected in the sky, coming nearer and nearer, until the first lamp shone out on the roadside.

They left the level turnpike-way behind them, and rattled over the stones at last. But there was nothing unpleasant in the commotion; no-they seemed to clatter forth a rude welcome to the travellers; and there was an excitement in their noise and rough jolting, that sent the blood still quicker through its channels. Then came the long glittering lines of gas upon the bridges, and the wider thoroughfares and poorer shops across the water; next, rows of uniform houses, with gardens in front; and here and there trees and open spaces, until the carriage at last stopped at the tenement of Mrs. Chicksand. We might more properly have said, of her husband: but as he seldom appeared, and nobody knew him when he did, his wife was the prominent feature of the establishment, both in her public and domestic position.

They were evidently expected. There was more than ordinary light in the drawing-room; and as the carriage stopped, the blinds were thrust on one side, and various forms were seen peeping out. And Mrs. Chicksand had lighted the passage-lamp, which was an illumination only indulged in upon extraordinary occasions, and chiefly de

pendent upon any end of wax-candle which could be put by without being accounted for to the lodgers. And that lady herself came to the door, giving orders to Lisbeth to lie in ambush on the kitchen-stairs, half way down, in a clean cap and new ribbons, and be in readiness to bring up any extra assistance, or body of able tea-things, that might be required.

They were all there. Mr. Scattergood and Freddy, whose holidays bad come round; and Amy-slily invited by Clara to stay a few days, and with her father's permission trembling, blushing, smiling, and almost crying by turns. Mr. Scattergood, in his general absent manner, which on the present occasion might perhaps be considered an advantage, received Vincent as if he had only been a day or two absent, certainly not even now perfectly comprehending what was going on, in the same spirit of easy apathy which had been his enemy through life, until he got his present appointment in the government office, where such a temperament was of no consequence. And Clara and Amy had, as usual, such a deal to say to one another, whilst the former was taking off her travelling attire, that Mrs. Scattergood thought they were never coming down again, until she sent Herbert up to knock and summons them. Even then, Amy came back by herself, whilst Herbert had apparently something of great consequence to communicate to Clara outside the door; but what it was nobody ever knew except Lisbeth, who chanced to be coming upstairs with the tea-things just at the moment. And, as she never told, nobody was, with these exceptions, ever any the wiser. It could, however, have been nothing very unpleasant, for the whole party were in high spirits, laughing and talking until such a late hour, that when Mr. Bodle returned at an unholy hour from some concert at which he had been conducting, he found an hieroglyphical scroll impaled upon his candle, which clever people might have deciphered into an order not to put up the chain, nor lock the door and hide the key in the fanlight, as was his wont to do. Even long after he sought his iron bedstead, sounds of conversation came from below, and sometimes songs, in the demi-audibility of a floor beneath, which at last mingled with his sleeping thoughts, and produced dreams of confused construction, in which the lady of his affections, who lived next door, figured, together with everybody else, under the most extravagant circumstances one of those inextricable visions which are alone dependent upon love, or Welsh rarebits, for their origin.

CHAPTER XLIV.

The latest intelligence of everybody.--Conclusion.

In the dramas which our friend Mr. Glenalvon Fogg was in the habit of producing, there were certain situations, towards the close of the last scene, wherein the audience generally, to his extreme disgust, were accustomed to rise up and think about their shawls, or the difficulty of procuring a conveyance in the rush, heedless of what was going on upon the stage. For they saw that the various characters were rapidly approaching universal reconciliation; and so they cared little further to interest themselves in the development of the plot, albeit the "tag," as Mr. Fogg technically termed it, was to him a most im

portant point, and cost him usually more labour than any other portion of the drama.

Now the "tag" is usually framed in this manner; it is explained for fear the courteous reader should not precisely understand what we mean, as well as to furnish young beginners with a guide, being an appeal, if cleverly made, which not only winds up the performance with a flourish, but even assuages the serpent of disapprobation who may have commenced winding about the house. When all parties are made happy, and the old man has forgiven them, the popular character should step forward, in a touchingly appealing manner, to the lamps, and say, "But our happiness still further depends upon your forgiveness; let me therefore solicit that-" &c.; to be filled up as circumstances require. Or, when alluding to present joy, the popular character may add, "And if these kind friends will but look kindly on our delinquencies, we may be tempted (according to the nature of the piece) either to take A Trip to Anywhere,' or 'to claw off The Lee Shore of Life,' or 'to pass through the Seven Sinks of Profligacy,' every evening, until further notice."

We know that our own "tag" is fast approaching; but we request, although the shadow of forthcoming events may be thrown upon the progress of our story, that you will not yet quit our pages, but bear with us a little longer. Yet we do not wish to weary you, as indeed is sometimes the case with certain performances that we have seen. We are not going to drag two chairs down to the lights, and commence, "Thirteen months since," in allusion to the time that has passed since our dramatis persona appeared in these leaves, rather than on these boards. We only beg you will keep us company yet a little time before we part.

In a few days after the arrival of Vincent his family changed their abode, and were domiciled in a neat small house, still in the neighbourhood, however, of their old quarters. Mrs. Chicksand, after their departure, began to get in despair. The bill remained up for a period hitherto unheard of; Mr. Bodle alone remained constant to the household gods; and, in the absence of other lodgers, the fare became in every sense a reduced one. But one fine morning Mrs. Chicksand was delighted by the sudden appearance of Mr. Snarry, fresh and blooming, from Gravesend, who, accompanied by Mr. Jollit, marched up the small garden, and knocked at the door. Mrs. Chicksand's heart beat quickly; she indulged a hope that Mr. Snarry had caught an occupant for the top of the house. But it was better still.

"And so the first floor is empty," observed Mr. Snarry to Mrs. Chicksand when the greetings had passed between them. “I think I may want it before long."

"Thank you, sir," replied the hostess; "what I say to C. is, that I'd sooner have fifty gentlemen than one lady, even if they were all on the second floor."

Mr. Jollit directly imagined that he saw the half-hundred of lodgers located in that partition of the house; and had a laugh to himself, in consequence, at the bare idea of the scene of confusion it would

create.

"But," said Mr. Snarry, with a suspicion of a blush upon his cheek, “ I fear there will be a lady, Mrs. Chicksand: a great event in my life is about to take place."

"Indeed, sir!" said Mrs. Chicksand, who was directly sorry she

had spoken, and had a faint idea of what Mr. Snarry was nervous in communicating.

"Melancholy things, ma'am, of our poor friend," said Mr. Jollit to Mrs. Chicksand, with solemn gravity: "he sat in the sun one day, and it flew to his head quite lost his reason since he was here last; obliged to have a keeper. Do you find strait-waistcoats with the sheets and table-cloths?"

"Don't mind him, Mrs. Chicksand," said Mr. Snarry, with a look of mild rebuke. "The fact is," and he hesitated, "the fact is, I am going to be married."

Whereupon Mr. Jollit suddenly inflated his cheeks, and imitated a person in the agonies of suppressed laughter, until Lisbeth was compelled to dust nothing upon the mantel-piece, and then put it straight to conceal her own disposition to join in Mr. Joe Jollit's merriment. But the prospect of a first-floor kept Mrs. Chicksand staid and orderly. "And so the Scattergoods are gone!" observed Mr. Snarry, when the revelation had been made, and he had been congratulated thereon. "Ah! I thought once I should not have another love!" and he sighed sentimentally as he added, "this house brings her to my mind."

And then he added a little couplet wherein "toujours" rhymed with "amours;" upon which Mr. Jollit begged he would not talk Hebrew, because he did not understand it.

"And may I be bold enough to ask who the lady is?" asked Mrs. Chicksand.

"You have seen her here," said Mr. Snarry; "it is Mrs. Hankins's sister."

"Oh! a nice young lady;" returned the hostess, smirking at this proof of Mr. Snarry's confidence; " and that Lisbeth always thought, and so did I; and told Chicksand that Mr. Jollit was sweet there."

"Mr. Jollit is sweet everywhere," returned that gentleman. “No, no! Mrs. Chicksey biddy; Mr. Jollit has still got his senses: he looks upon marriage as a popular deception. Now, Snarry, if you have settled everything, we will go, or we shall miss the boat."

A private conversation of five minutes with the landlady settled everything; and then the friends departed. But as they turned from the road, Mr. Jollit indulged in another quiet joke, by calling the attention of an omnibus cad with his finger to an imaginary balloon in the air and then laughing at him for being taken in, and bowing to a salutation less friendly than forcible, that was hurled after him, they went their way towards the embarking point of the steamer that was to waft Mr. Sharry back to love and Rosherville.

Mr. Gregory Scattergood kept to his word. As soon as the family were established in their new abode, he took up his residence in one of the wings, or rather the pinions, being the extreme apartment; and having furnished it inversely, to his own liking, admitted that he was perfectly comfortable-at least, as much so as his perverted notions of gravity would permit. And he took such a fancy to Clara that he was always making her little presents, and as much as intimated that all he had in the world would be left to her. And Herbert, who was there every day, went and told the old gentleman all the news, and condoled with him upon the state of things generally, until he was no less pleased with him than with his niece.

Taught by the sharp lessons of the past, that carelessness might almost degenerate into criminality, Vincent became an altered character.