"Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be happy when you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that Willy is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell," said the boy, caressing her, and pressing his face to hers, "be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I love him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you pain by doing wrongindeed I never will!"

The child suffered him to move her hands and put them round his neck. There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that she would stay and be his friend as long as Heaven would let her. He clapped his hands for joy and thanked her many times; and, being charged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an earnest promise that he never would.

Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the theme which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of its cause, something of distrust lingered about him still; for he would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice outside the door to know if she were safe within; and, being answered yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek and take him home. Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house to ask if she were well; and morning, noon, or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports, to bear her company.

"And a good little friend he is, too," said the old sexton to her once. "When his elder brother died-elder seems a strange word, for he was only seven years old-I remember this one took it sorely to heart."

The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how its truth was shadowed out even in this infant.

"It has given him something of a quiet way, I think," said the old man; though for that, he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you and he have been listening by the old well."

"Indeed we have not," the child replied. "I have been afraid to go near it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not know the ground."

"Come down with me," said the old man. "I have known it from a boy. Come."

They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused among the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.

"This is the place," said the old man. "Give me your hand while you throw back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too old-I mean rheumatic-to stoop myself."

"A black and dreadful place!" exclaimed the child.

"Look in," said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.

The child complied, and gazed down into the pit.

"It looks like a grave itself," said the old man.

"It does," replied the child.

"I have often had the fancy," said the sexton, "that it might have been dug at first to make the old place more gloomy and the old monks more religious. It's to be closed up and built over."

The child still stood looking thoughtfully into the vault.

"We shall see," said the sexton, "on what gay tied

her earth will have closed when the light is shut out from here. God knows! They'll close it up next spring."

"The birds sing again in spring," thought the child, as she leaned at her casement-window and gazed at the declining sun. "Spring! a beautiful and happy time !"

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

A DAY or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr. Swiveller walked into Mr. Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and, being alone in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and, taking from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to folding and pinning the same upon it after the manner of a hatband. Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his work with great complacency, and put his hat on again-very much over one eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect. These arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked up and down the office with measured steps.

"It has always been the same with me," said Mr. Swive.ler, "always. 'Twas ever thus-from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay, I never loved a tree or flower, but 'twas the first to fade away. I never reared a young gazelle to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a market-gardener." Overpowered by these reflections, Mr. Swiveller stopped short at the client's chair and flung himself into its open arms.

"And this," said Mr. Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composu**, "is life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I'm quite satisfied; Ï shall wear," added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard at it, as if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from spurning it with his foot-"I shall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy in remembrance of her with whom I shall never again thread the windings of the mazy; whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy; who, during the short remainder of my existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, ha, ha!"

It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any incongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr. Swiveller did not wind up with a cheerful, hilarious laugh, which would have been undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is designated in melo-dramas "laughing like a fiend," for it seems that your fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables, never more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry, and one worthy of remembrance.

The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr. Swiveller was still sitting in a very grim state in the client's chair, when there came a ring -or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell-at the office-bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive countenance of Mr. Chuckster, between whom and himself a fraternal greeting ensued.

"You're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house," said that gentleman, poising himself on one leg and shaking himself with the other. "Rather," returned Dick.

"Rather!" retorted Mr. Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling which so well became him. "I should think so. Why, my good feller, do you know what o'clock it is-half-past nine, A. M., in the morning?"

"Won't you come in?" said Dick. "All alone. Swiveller solus.

"Tis now the witching-""

"Hour of night!' "9

"When churchyards yawn,'

"And graves give up their dead.""

At the end of this quotation in dialogue each gentleman struck an attitude, and, immediately subsiding into prose, walked into the office. Such morsels of enthusiasm were common among the Glorious Apollos, and were, indeed, the links that bound them together, and raised them above the dull, cold earth.

"Well, and how are you, my buck?" said Mr. Chuckster, taking a stool. "I was forced to come into the city upon some little private matters of my own, and couldn't pass the corner of the street without looking in; but upon my soul I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly early."

Mr. Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments; and, it appearing on farther conversation that he was in good health, and that Mr. Chuckster was in the like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a solemn custom of the ancient brotherhood to which they belonged, joined in a fragment of the popular duet of "All's Well," with a long shake at the end.

"And what's the news?" said Richard.

"The town's as flat, my dear feller," replied Mr. Chuckster, as the surface of a Dutch oven. There's no news. By the by, that lodger of yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most vigorous comprehension, you know. Never was such a feller!"

"What has he been doing now?" said Dick.

"By Jove, sir," returned Mr. Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuffbox, the lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in brass, "that man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends with our articled clerk. There's no harm in him, but he is so amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a thing or two, and could do him some good by his manners and conversation. I have my faults, sir," said Mr. Chuckster"No, no," interposed Mr. Swiveller.

"Oh, yes, I have, I have my faults; no man knows his faults better than I know mine. But," said Mr. Chuckster, "I am not meek. My worst enemies-every man has his enemies, sir, and I have mine-never accused me of being meek. And I tell you what, sir, if I hadn't more of these qualities that commonly endear man to man, than our articled clerk has, I'd steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown myself. I'd die degraded, as I had lived. I would, upon my honour." Mr. Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the knuckle of the fore-finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily at Mr. Swiveller, as much as to say, that if he thought he was going to sneeze he would find himself mistaken.

Not contented, sir," said Mr. Chuckster, "with making friends with Abel, he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother. Since he came home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there-actually been there. He patronises young Snobby besides; yet I don't suppose that, beyond the common forms of civility, he has ever exchanged half a dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you know," said Mr. Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to do when they consider things are going a little too far, "this is altogether such a low minded

affair that, if I didn't feel for the governor, and know that he could never get on without me, I should be obliged to cut the connexion. I should have no alternative."

Mr. Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred the fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing.

"As to young Snob, sir," pursued Mr. Chuckster, with a prophetic look, "you'll find he'll turn out bad. In our profession we know something of human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came back to work out that shilling will show himself one of these days in his true colours. He's a low thief, sir. He must be."

Mr. Chuckster, being roused, would probably have pursued this subject farther, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, which, seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused him to assume a greater appearance of meekness than was, perhaps, quite consistent with his late declaration. Mr. Swiveller, hearing the same sound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg, until it brought him to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits to part with the poker, he thrust it, as he cried, "Come in!"

Who should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of Mr. Chuckster's wrath. Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly, or look so fierce, as Mr. Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr. Swiveller stared at him for a moment, and then, leaping from his stool and drawing out the poker from its place of concealment, performed the broad-sword exercise with all the cuts and guards complete, in a species of phrensy. Is the gentleman at home?" said Kit, rather astonished by this uncommon reception.

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Before Mr. Swiveller could make any reply, Mr. Chuckster took occasion to enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held to be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have spoken of the other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible that the object of his search might be of inferior quality) should have mentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree as they thought proper. Mr. Chuckster farther remarked, that he had some reason to believe this form of address was personal, to himself, and that he was not a man to be trifled with, as certain snobs (whom he did not more particularly mention or describe) might find to their cost.

"I mean the gentleman up stairs," said Kit, turning to Richard Swiveller. "Is he at home?"

"Why?" rejoined Dick.

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Because, if he is, I have a letter for him."

"From whom?" said Dick.

"From Mr. Garland."

"Oh!" said Dick, with extreme politeness. "Then you may hand it over, sir. And if you're to wait for an answer, sir, you may wait in the passage, sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir."

"Thank you," returned Kit. "But I am to give it to himself, if you please."

The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr. Chuckster, and so moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared, if he were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly have annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which he did consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation attending ́t, could not but have met with the proper sanction and approval of a jury

of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a verdict of justifiable homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the morals and character of the avenger. Mr. Swiveller, without being quite so hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, and not a little puzzled how to act, (Kit being quite cool and good humoured,) when the single gentleman was heard to call violently down stairs. "Didn't I see somebody for me come in?" cried the lodger.

"Yes, sir," replied Dick.

"Certainly, sir."

"Then where is he?" roared the single gentleman.

"He's here, sir," rejoined Mr. Swiveller. "Now, young man, don't you hear you're to go up stairs? Are you deaf?"

Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any farther altercation, but hurried off, and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at each other in silence.

Didn't I tell you so?" said Mr. Chuckster. of that?"

"What do you think

Mr. Swiveller, being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not perceiving in the conduct of Kit any villany of enormous magnitude, scarcely knew what answer to return. He was relieved from his perplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr. Sampson and his sister Sally, at sight of whom Mr. Chuckster precipitately retired.

Mr. Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences they generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual time, and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and designs had tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their toilsome way. In the present instance they seemed particularly gay; Miss Sally's aspect being of a most oily kind, and Mr. Brass rubbing his hands in an exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner. "Well, Mr. Richard," said Brass. How are we this morning? Are we pretty fresh and cheerful, sir-eh, Mr. Richard?" "Pretty well, sir," replied Dick. "That's well," said Brass. 64 Ha, ha! We should be gay as larks, Mr. Richard-why not? It's a pleasant world we live in, sir, a very pleasant world. There are bad people in it, Mr. Richard; but, if there were no bad people, there would be no good lawyers. Ha, ha! Any letters by the post this morning, Mr. Richard ?"

Mr. Swiveller answered in the negative.

"Ha!" said Brass, "no matter. If there's little business to-day, there'll be more to-morrow. A contented spirit, Mr. Richard, is the sweetness of existence. Anybody been here, sir ?"

"Only my friend," replied Dick. "May we ne'er want a→→

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Friend," Brass chimed in quickly, " or a bottle to give him. Ha, ha! That's the way the song runs, isn't it? A very good song, Mr. Richard, very good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha, ha! Your friend's the young man from Witherden's office, I think-yes-May we ne'er want a-nobody else at all been here, Mr. Richard ?"

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Only somebody to the lodger," replied Mr. Swiveller.

"Oh, indeed!" cried Brass. "Somebody to the lodger, eh? Ha, ha! May we ne'er want a friend, or a—somebody to the lodger, eh, Mr. Richard ?"

Yes," said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of spirits which his employer displayed. "With him now."