Mrs Denman professed utter ignorance on this point, and when told that
it ought to be known to every one in the house as a mode of escape in
the event of fire, she mildly requested to know what she would have to
do if there were such a trap.

"Why, get out on the roof to be sure," (Mrs Denman shivered) "and get
along the tiles to the next house," (Mrs Denman shut her eyes and
shuddered) "an' so make yer escape.  Then you should have a ladder fixed
to this trap-door so as it couldn't be took away, and ye should have
some dozen fathoms o' half-inch rope always handy, cause if ye was cut
off from the staircase by fire an' from the roof by smoke ye might have
to let yourself down from a windy.  It's as well, too, to know how to
knot sheets and blankets together, so that the ties won't slip, for if
you have no rope they'd be better than nothin'.  You should also have a
hand-pump, ma'am, and a bucket of water always handy, 'cause if you take
a fire at the beginnin' it's easy put out.  An' it's as well to know
that you should go into a room on fire on your hands and knees, with
your nose close to the ground--just as a pinter-dog goes--'cause there's
more air there than overhead; an' it's better to go in wi' the hand-pump
the first thing.  Don't wait to dress, ma'am."

"Stop, stop, Mr Corney!" cried Mrs Denman, holding up her hand.

The little lady was stunned with the rapid utterance of the enthusiastic
fireman, and with the dreadful suggestion that she, Mrs Denman, should,
in the dead of night, get upon the roof of her dwelling and scramble
over the tiles, or let herself down by a rope from a window into the
public street, or creep into a burning room on her hands and knees with
her nose to the ground like a pointer, and all this, too, in her
night-dress, so she begged of him to stop, and said:

"But you forget, fireman, it is impossible for _me_ to do any of these
dreadful things."

"Well, ma'am," returned Joe coolly, "it wouldn't be easy--though, for
the matter o' that, it's wonderful what people will do for their lives;
but I was tellin' ye, ma'am, what ought to be done, so as somebody else
in the house might do it, if you couldn't.

"But suppose, ma'am," continued Joe, without waiting for a reply;
"suppose that the house is alight.  Well, the first thing you've got to
do, is not to get into a fluster.  That can't do no good, you know, and
is sure to do mischief.  Keep cool.  That's the first thing, ma'am; and
be deliberate in all ye do.  The second thing is, to wrap a blanket
round ye, an' get out of the house as fast as ye can without stoppin' to
dress.  It's of no use lookin' put out, ma'am; for it's better to escape
without yer clo'es than to be burnt alive in 'em.  Then be careful to
_shut all doors after ye_ as ye go.  This keeps the air from gittin' at
the fire, and so smothers it down till the ingines come up.  Also keep
all windows shut.  If the smoke is like to choke ye, git yer nose as
near the ground as possible, an' go along on yer hands and knees.  A bit
o' flannel or a worsted sock held over yer mouth an' nose, will help you
to bear it better.

"If ye can't escape by the street-door, or the trap in the roof, then
get into a front room, where you will be more easy to be got at wid
ladders or fire-escapes, an' see that _every mimber o' the household_ is
there.  Many a wan has bin forgotten in the hurry-skurry of a fire, and
left asleep in bed, ignorant o' the danger till too late; when a cool
head might have missed 'em, and wakened 'em in time.  Whatever ye do,
ma'am--keep cool."

The probability of poor Mrs Denman keeping cool in such circumstances
was uncommonly small; for she was at that moment hot all over, and her
face flushed at the mere recital of such horrors!

Joe then went on to state, that the very last thing she should do was to
jump from a window (a somewhat unnecessary piece of advice, poor Miss
Denman thought), and that, when she was compelled to take such a step,
she should first of all pitch over all the blankets and bedding she
could lay hold of to make her fall easy.  He wound up with an emphatic
reiteration of the assurance that her only chance lay in "keeping cool."

That night, poor Mrs Denman, in a condition of mind that is utterly
indescribable, because inconceivable, went through the whole of the
dreadful processes which Joe had described; and did it, too, with
miraculous presence of mind and energy--in her dreams.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

DARK PLOTS ARE HATCHED.

Gorman was one of those peculiar characters who, in personal appearance,
are totally devoid of peculiarity.  He was a middle-sized, thick-set,
commonplace, grave, quiet man; very powerful--but not apparently so; one
whom it was impossible to "find out" unless he chose to let himself be
found out.  Above all, he was a reserved man.

Everybody knew well enough, at least among his intimates, that he was
named Gorman; but not one of the number knew what his Christian name
was.  A few were aware that he signed himself "D.  Gorman"; but whether
the "D" represented David, dastard, drunkard, or demon, was a matter of
pure speculation to all, a few of his female acquaintance excepted (for
he had no friends), who asserted roundly that it represented them all,
and some were even willing to go the length of saying that it
represented more, and stood for dirty, drivelling, desperate, and a few
other choice words which it is quite unnecessary to mention.  Only a
few, and these were among the knowing and peculiarly observant ones of
Gorman's intimates, said that "D" stood for "deep."  But then, many of
those who thus pronounced their opinion, were comparatively worthless
characters, given to scandal and slander; so the reader must not allow
himself to be biassed too much by their report.

Certain it is, however, that when Gorman was asked on one occasion what
his Christian name was, he replied that he had no Christian name;
because he didn't believe in Christianity, and that he signed himself
"D," to be distinguished from the other Gormans who might chance to
exist in the universe.

People were not at all shocked at his bold statement of unbelief;
because, in the circle in which he moved, the same disbelief was pretty
general.

Besides many other traits and qualities, definable and indefinable,
Gorman had the power of assuming the appearance either of a burglar of
the lowest type, or a well-to-do contractor or tradesman.  A slight
change in dress and manner were sufficient to metamorphose him beyond
recognition.

Everybody knew, also, that Gorman was the landlord of a small
public-house at the corner of a dirty street, not far from London
Bridge; and that he kept a stout, middle-aged man on the premises to do
the duty of host, while he himself went about "other business," which
nobody knew of, and which no one could find out, although many had tried
to do so with all their might.

Every day in the year, Gorman might have been seen at the "Golden Swan";
but never for longer than a few minutes at a time, when he inspected the
books, received the cash drawn the day before; and made an impression on
all in the premises, that tended to convince them they were well looked
after.

"Humph!" ejaculated Gorman, as he finished counting the dirty coppers
and pieces of silver which his agent had delivered to him, and dropped
them from his dirty fingers into a dirty leather bag: "Business is dull,
I think."

"It ain't brisk just now, sir," replied the deputy-landlord of the
"Golden Swan."

Gorman received this reply with another "Humph," and then, putting the
bag in his coat pocket, prepared to leave.

"No one bin askin' for me?" inquired Gorman.

"No, sir; no one."

"I'll be back to-morrow about this time."

The deputy knew that this was false, for his employer invariably came at
a different hour each day, in order to take "the house" by surprise; but
he said, "Very well, sir," as usual.

"And mind," continued Gorman, "that you put the lights out.  You're
uncommon careful about that, I hope?"

It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman's anxiety about putting
out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in
the course of a few years.  He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire.
Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it--no, not damaged, by
the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the
full amount.  His enemies sometimes said _above_ it; but neither they
nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.

The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in
putting everything out every night--from the last beery lingerer, to the
gas--and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question,
as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business.  Hereupon
Gorman said "Good-night," and the deputy returned to the counter, where
besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.

Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the
west end of London.  Here he sought the well-known precincts of
Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.

That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a
feeling of the deepest misery.

"Anyone inside?" asked Gorman.

"No," said Boone, "'cept the boy.  I'll call him to mind the shop, and
then we can be alone."

As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little
room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop,
while he held private consultation with his friend.

The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy.  He was a soft-faced,
washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner.
Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such
an idiot as they took him for.  He obeyed his master's mandate by
sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in
attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.

"Glad to see you, Mr Gorman," said Boone, seating his tall body on a
low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown
himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire.
"Very glad to see you, indeed, in my--little sanctum, my withdrawing
room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the
intervals of business."

Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor
did not encourage him.

"Pretty long intervals, I should suppose," he growled, pulling out his
pipe and lighting it.

Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was
extremely dull--astonishingly dull.

"Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings' worth
o' goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although
it's gettin' well on for Christmas-time?  One would a'most fancy the
childr'n was about to give up such vanities an' devote themselves to
serious business.  It's a serious business for the like of us, anyhow."

Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression
on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking
over it, and made up his mind to do it.

Boone's face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade
paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he _had_
been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind _not_ to do it.

"Oh, you have, have you?" said Gorman in a tone of irony.  "Very good;
then I'll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by
this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half."

Boone's face became still paler.

"You're a hard landlord," said he.

"You're a soft tenant," retorted Gorman.

"You know what the punishment is by law," continued Boone.

"Yes--death," said the other drily; "but you know as well as I do that
it's never carried out nowadays."

"But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain't much better."

"Some men think it's worse," replied Gorman, with a savage grin; "but
you've no need to fear.  If you only take the right precautions it's
impossible to find it out, an' I'll engage to put ye up to doin' it in
such a way that there won't be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to
convict you.  Only put a bold face on it and the thing's done, and your
fortune made as well as mine."

The man's voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he
thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his
face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.

"Come, don't be hard on me," he said at length; "I really haven't got
courage to go through with this.  Only give me a little more time, and
I'll--"

"Very good," interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his
pipe into fragments on the hearth; "if you won't burn yourself out o'
this scrape."

"Hush! hush, man!" said Boone in a hoarse whisper; "not so loud; my lad
will hear you.  Come, I'll think of it."

"Will you _do_ it?" demanded the other fiercely.  "You know the
alternative if you don't?"

"Ruination?"

"Exactly so; and that without delay."

"Ruination either way," murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he
were counting the cost.

"Tut, man," said his landlord, becoming more gentle, "it's nothing of
the sort.  If you only take my advice, it'll be a jolly blaze, which,
instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and
commencing business again on fresh capital.  Come, I've not got time to
waste with you.  There's no escape for you, so you'd better say yes,
else I'll go and have a talk with a legal friend of mine who is used to
screwing gold out of most unpromising mines."

David Boone's face had by this time become so pale that it could not
become paler, so it turned somewhat green instead.  His teeth, too, had
a tendency to chatter when he spoke, but by a strong mental effort he
prevented this, and said in a subdued voice that he was willing to do
whatever his landlord pleased to command.

"That's all right," said Gorman, resuming his seat in front of the fire;
"now you speak like a man.  Sit down and I'll go over the matter with
you, and make your mind easy by showing you that it ain't either a
difficult or risky piece of work.  Bless you, it ain't the first time
I've been up to that sort o' thing."

It did not require the diabolical leer that accompanied this remark to
convince his hearer of its truth.

"Now, then," said Gorman, with a business air, "first of all, how stands
the stock in the shop?"

"Rather low," answered Boone, who had reseated himself on the stool; "in
fact, I've got little or nothing more than what is visible.  I've bin so
hard-up of late that I've had to crowd everything into view an' make the
most of appearances.  All the dressed dolls has got their frocks spread
out, and the undressed ones their arms an' legs throwed about to make
'em take up as much room as possible.  The lids of all the work boxes is
open, the slates and puzzle boxes stuck up in single rows, with their
broadsides to the front, and the collapsin' worlds is all inflated.
Everything in the front is real, but all behind is sham dummies an'
empty boxes."

Gorman opened his eyes a little on hearing this.

"Good," he said, after a pause; "you're a cleverer fellow than I took
you for.  I thought you was well off, and I'm sure the neighbours think
the same, for the place looks pretty full an' thrivin'.  I suppose, now,
if it was all sold off you wouldn't have enough to pay up my loans?"

"Nothink like it," said Boone earnestly.  "I've slaved night and day,
an' done my best, but luck's again' me."

"Ah, that's 'cause you've bin faint-hearted in time past; you're goin'
to be bold in time to come, my good fellow; you'll have to be bold, you
will.  Come, I'll explain how.  But first, let me ask how much you think
the stock is worth."

"Not much above fifty pounds."

"Hum! it looks like more."

"That's true, an' the people about think it's worth two or three
hundred, for you see I have a lot o' cheap jewellery, and some of the
inquisitive ones have been trying to pump me of late.  They all think
I'm thriving," said Boone, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"So you are, so you are, man," said Gorman jocosely, "and you're going
to make your fortune soon, and so am I, though at present I'm poor
enough.  However, that don't matter.  Here's your course for the future,
which you're to steer by.  You'll go an' begin chatting with your
neighbours at odd times, and your conversation, curiously enough, will
always be about the times bein' better than usual, an' about the
approach of Christmas, an' the stock you mean to lay in against that
festive season.  After that you'll lay in the stock--fifty pounds'
worth; and it won't be sham; it'll be real--"

"But where is the money to come from?" asked Boone.

"Oh, don't you trouble about the money; I'll provide that.  I've a
curious power of raisin' the wind on easy terms.  Fifty pounds' worth of
real goods will be bought by you, my thriving shopman, and you'll let
some of the neighbours, partiklerly these same inquisitive 'uns, see the
goods and some of the invoices, and you'll tell them that you've laid in
150 pounds worth of stock, and that you think of layin' in more.  On the
strength of the press o' business you'll get another shop-lad, and
you'll keep 'em employed a good deal goin' messages, so that they won't
get to know much about the state o' things, and I'll take care to send
you a rare lot o' customers, who'll come pretty often for small
purchases, and give the shop an uncommon thrivin' look.  Oh, we'll make
a splendid appearance of doin' business, and we'll have lots of
witnesses ready to bother these sharp lawyers if need be--won't we,
Boone?"

Poor Boone, whose colour had not yet improved much, smiled in a ghastly
way, but said nothing.

"Well, then," resumed Gorman, after a few minutes' meditation, "when
this thriving trade is in full swing we'll get it insured.  You know it
would never do to risk the loss of such valuable stock by fire--eh,
Boone? common prudence pints that out!  You say what you have is worth
fifty, and what you'll lay in is fifty more, makin' a hundred, so we'll
insure for five hundred; there's a clear gain of four hundred per cent,
only think of that!  Well, the house I have already insured for five
hundred, that makes nine hundred, and we'll insure the furniture and
fixings for fifty; that'll look business-like, you know.  Then the goods
laid in will be carefully removed in the night at various times before
the fire, so you had better see that they are small and portable
objects; that'll make another fifty pounds, if not more.  So I see my
way to a thousand pounds.  That's a neat sum, ain't it, Boone?"

Still Boone made no reply, but favoured his visitor with another ghastly
smile.

"Well, then," pursued Gorman, "all you've got to do is, on a certain
night that I will fix, to set the shop alight, and the thing's done
quite easy.  But that's not all.  You've got an old mother, I believe;
well, it would be very unnatural in you to run the risk of being burned
to death, an' leaving her penniless; so you'll insure your life for five
hundred pounds, and I'll pay the first premium on it, and then you'll
die--"

"Die!" exclaimed Boone, with a start.

"Ay; why not, if you're to get a small fortune by it."

"But how's that to be managed?" inquired Boone, with a look of doubt.

"Managed?  Nothing easier.  You'll be so desperately upset by the fire--
perhaps singed a little too--that you'll be taken ill and won't get
better.  I'll look carefully after you as your loving friend, and when
you're about dead you'll get up and clear off in a quiet way.  I'll make
arrangements to have a corpse as like you as possible put in your bed,
and then you'll be buried comfortably, and we'll share the insurance.
Of course you'll have to leave this part of the town and disguise
yourself, but that won't be difficult.  Why, man, if you were only fond
of a joke you might even attend your own funeral!  It's not the first
time that sort of thing has bin done.  So, then, you'll have your life
insured, but not yet.  Your first business is to set about the purchase
of the stock, and, let me tell you, there's no time to lose, so I advise
you to write out the orders this very night.  I'll fetch you fifty
pounds in a day or two, and you'll pay up at once.  It'll look well, you
know, and after it's all settled we'll divide the plunder.  Now then,
good-night.  I congratulate you on your thriving business."

Gorman opened the door of the inner room as he said the last words, so
that the lad in the shop might hear them.  As he passed through the shop
he whispered in his friend's ear, "Mind the consequences if you fail,"
and then left him with another hearty good-night.

Poor David Boone, having sold himself to the tempter, went about his
duties like an abject slave.  He began by ordering goods from various
wholesale dealers in the city, after which he took occasion to stand a
good deal at his shop door and accost such of his neighbours as chanced
to pass.  The conversation at such times invariably began with the
interesting topic of the weather, on which abstruse subject Boone and
his friends displayed a surprising profundity of knowledge, by stating
not only what the weather was at the time being, and what it had been in
time past, but what it was likely to be in time to come.  It soon
diverged, however, to business, and usually ended in a display of fresh
goods and invoices, and in references, on the part of Boone, to the
felicitous state of trade at the time.

Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his
part well.  In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and
his laughter was sardonic.  Even when commenting on the prosperity of
trade his sighs were frequent and deep.  One of his friends thought and
said that prosperity was turning the poor man's brain.  Others thought
that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his
deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor's parrot,
which "could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker," gave no
outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes
of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they
feared there was a screw loose somewhere.

This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among
the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch
as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad
world of loose screws.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

A LITTLE MORE HATCHING.

One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and
compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse in Tooley
Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning
hiss, and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to
boom.  He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a
good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the
last shot was fired.

"It's a jolly time of day this--the jolliest hour of the twenty-four,"
muttered Ned to himself, with a smile.

His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic, by reason of his
having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day.

By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations
immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following
words:

"Com--mi--boy--y-you'll go--ave an--urrer por-o-porer--thash yer sort!"

At a certain point in the drunkard's downward career he ceases to have
any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual
staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag gallop that generally terminates
abruptly in the grave.

Ned Hooper, a kind-hearted fellow enough, and thinking himself not so
bad as he seemed because of that same kind-heartedness, had reached the
galloping point, and was travelling unusually fast along the high road
to ruin.

Being of a generous nature, Ned was in the habit of extending his
patronage to various beer-shops, among others to that one near London
Bridge which has been described as the property of Gorman.  Business,
pleasure, or fancy led him to that shop on the evening in question.  He
was standing at the counter steadying himself with his left hand and
holding a pewter-pot in his right, when the door of the inner room
opened, and Gorman crossed the floor.  He was in a thoughtful mood, and
was about to pass out without raising his eyes, when Ned arrested him
with:

"Good ev-n'in', Misher Gorm'n."

Gorman glanced back, and then turned away as if in contempt, but,
suddenly checking himself, returned, and going up to Hooper with as
affable a smile as his countenance would admit of, said that he was
delighted to shake hands with him, and that he was the very man he
wanted to see, as he wished to have a word of conversation with him.

"Conv'shas'n wi' me?" said Ned, swaying himself to and fro as he
endeavoured to look steadily in the face of his friend; "fire away,
shen.  I'm sh' man f'r conv'shash'n, grave or gay, comic--'r--shublime,
's all the shame to me!"

He finished the pot, and laid it, with an immense assumption of care, on
the counter.

"Come out, we'll walk as we talk," said Gorman.

"Ha! to b'shure; 'at's poetical--very good, very good, we'll wa-alk as
we talk--ha! ha! very good.  Didn't know you wash a poet--eh? don't look
like 'un."

"Come along, then," said Gorman, taking him by the arm.

"Shtop!" said Ned, drawing himself up with an air of drivelling dignity,
and thrusting his hand into his trouser-pocket.

"What for?" asked the other.

"I haven't p-paid for my b-beer."

"Never mind the beer.  I'll stand that," said Gorman, dragging his
friend away.

Ned consented to be dragged, and said something to the effect that he
hoped to have the pleasure of standing treat on some future occasion.

"Now, then," said Gorman, somewhat firmly, though not sternly, for he
knew that Ned Hooper was not to be browbeat; "are you sober enough to
attend to what I've got to say?"

"Shober as a dudge," answered Ned.

Gorman looked earnestly in his face for a few moments, and then began to
talk to him in a continuous strain by way of testing him.

"C'found these cabs an' b-busseses; a feller c-can't hear a word," said
Ned.

"Your lodgin's an't far off, are they?"

"Close 't 'and," answered Ned.

"Let's go to 'em," said Gorman.

In silence Ned Hooper led the way, and, conducting his friend into his
"chamber," as he styled his poor abode, begged him to be seated, and
threw himself into an armchair beside the little fire.  There was a pipe
on the chimney-piece, which Ned began to fill, while Gorman opened the
conversation.

"You're hard up, rather, just now?" said the latter.

"'Xactly so, that's my c'ndition to a tee."

Ned smiled as he said this, as though it were the most satisfactory
state of things possible, and lighted his pipe.

"Of course you've no objection to make a fifty pound note or so?" asked
Gorman.

"None in sh' wo'ld; always," he became very earnest here, "_always_
sh'posin' that I make it honestly."

"Of course, of course," rejoined the other; "I would never propose
anything that would lead you into a scrape.  You don't suppose I would
do that, I hope?"

"Shertenly not," replied Ned with a smile; "fire away."

"Well, then, I'm anxious just now to procure a dead corpse."

Ned Hooper, drunk as he was, felt somewhat startled by this, but, being
a man of wandering and lively imagination, turned from the point in
question to an idea suggested by it.

"I sh'pose a living corpse wouldn't do, would it?  It must be a dead
one--eh?"

"Be serious if you can," said Gorman angrily.  "I want a corpse."

Ned Hooper, who, like many good-humoured men, was easily roused when in
a state of intoxication, fired at the tone of Gorman's voice, and looked
at him as sternly as he could, while he replied:

"What have _I_ got to do with yer wants an' yer co'pses--eh?  You don't
sh'pose I keep a stock of 'em on hand ready-made, do you--eh?"  Then
relapsing into a placid frame, he smiled, and added, "But fire away, ol'
feller, I'm yer man for conv'sashin, specially w'en it's in the comic
line."

"That's right," said Gorman, clapping Ned on the shoulder and
endeavouring to conciliate him; "now, then, the question is, how am I to
get 'un?"

"Ah, thash the question, if Shakspr's to be b'lieved."

"Well, but couldn't you think?" said Gorman.

"Think!" exclaimed the other, "what am I paid a salary for?  What are my
brains doin' night an day--eh?  Of course I can think; thash's my
pr'feshion, is thinking."

Gorman cast a scornful look at his friend, but he deemed it prudent to
admit the truth of what he said, and suggested that he might perhaps
remember a certain medical student with whom he had once held pleasant
converse in his (Gorman's) house of entertainment.

"R'member him, of course," hiccuped Ned.

"Well, then, he could get us a corpse, you know--couldn't he?"

Ned looked uncommonly knowing at this point, and admitted that he rather
thought he could--a dozen of them, if necessary.

"Well, I want one, and I'll pay well for it if it's of the right sort.
It must be at least six-foot two, thin about the jaws, with lanky black
hair, and a yellow complexion."

Ned smiled facetiously, but at the same time shook his head.

"Six f't two," said he, "an't a common height; it won't be easy to get
'un so tall; but--but," he pondered here with a grave expression of
countenance, "but it might be stretched a bit, you know--eh?  As to thin
jaws, most of 'em is thin about sh' jaws, an' black hair ain't un--
uncommon."

Ned yawned at this point, and looked very sleepy.

"Well, you'll speak to him, won't you, and I'll make it worth while for
both of you?"

"Oh yesh, I'll shpeak to him," said Ned, as his head fell on the table
and his senses utterly forsook him.

"Bah! you beast," muttered Gorman, casting a glance of scorn on his
friend as he rose to leave.  He had the sense, before going, to
extinguish the candle, lest Ned should overturn it and set the house on
fire; not that he cared either for Ned or the house, but as the former
happened to be necessary to him just then, he did not wish him to be
burned too soon.  Then he went out, closing the door softly after him.

Half an hour afterwards Ned's friend and fellow-lodger, John Barret,
entered the room, accompanied by Fred Auberly.

"Come, Fred," said the former, "we can chat here without interr--
hallo--"

"What's wrong?" inquired Fred, endeavouring to make out objects by the
feeble flicker of the fire, while his friend struck a light.

Barret did not reply, but the light soon revealed Ned's disreputable
figure half sprawling on and half clinging to the table.

"Surely this is not your chum, John?" asked Fred in surprise.

"Yes, that's him," answered Barret in a low sad voice.  "Help me to get
him into bed, like a good fellow."

Without a word the young men raised the drunken figure in their arms,
and laid it like some loathsome object on one of the beds in the
adjoining room.

"How can you stay with him?" asked Auberly, after they had returned to
the other room and seated themselves at the fire.

"He is an old schoolfellow of mine," said Barret in a low voice.  "I'm
sorry you've seen him in this state.  He was a very different fellow
once, I assure you; and if it were not for that accursed drink he would
be as pleasant a companion as exists.  You know I have no friends in
London save yourself, Fred, and this young fellow.--I came to stay with
him at first, not knowing his character, and now I remain to try to--
to--save him; but I fear his case is hopeless.  Come, Fred, we won't
talk of it.  You were saying, as we came along, that your father is
sterner than ever, were you not?"

"Ay," said Fred, with a sigh, "he won't even let me call to see my
sister too--that's the worst of it.  For the rest I care not; my brush
has sustained me hitherto, and my love for my profession increases every
hour.  I feel towards it, John, as a man may be supposed to feel towards
the sweet, young girl whom wicked guardians had for a long time refused
to let him wed.  Nothing but death shall separate us now!"

Barret smiled, and was about to make some rejoinder, but he checked
himself and changed the subject.

"How is your sister?" said he, "I have not heard of her for a long
time."

"Not well," answered Fred; "the doctors shake their heads and speak of
the shock having been too much for her.  Dear Loo, she never was strong,
and I'm afraid that she has received fatal injury on the night of the
fire.  I'm told that my poor father is sadly cut up about her--attends
on her night and day, and humours her every whim.  This is so unlike him
that it fills me with anxiety on account of dear Loo, whom I have not
seen since I went to live at Kensington."

"Kensington, Fred?  I did not know you had gone to live there."

"I was just going to mention that when we came in.  I have got a very
comfortable lodging with--who do you think? you'll never guess--Mrs
Willders, the mother of our young friend Willie who works with old Tom
Tippet upstairs.  You may well look surprised.  I came upon the lodging
quite accidentally, and, finding that it suited my inclinations and my
purse, I took it at once for a few weeks.  It's in a very poor locality,
no doubt, but you know a man must cut his coat according to his cloth,
and my cloth is not broad at present.  But then," continued Fred, with
sudden animation, "it's a splendid place for a painter!  There are such
picturesque regions and bits near it.  Why, Kensington Gardens are
sufficient to make the fortune of a landscape-painter--at least in the
way of trees; then an hour's walk takes you to rural scenery, or canal
scenery, with barges, bridges, boats, old stores, cottages, etcetera.
Oh! it's a magnificent spot, and I'm hard at work on a picturesque old
pump near Shepherd's Bush Common, with a bit of old brick wall behind
it, half-covered with ivy, and a gipsy-like beggar-girl drinking at it
out of her hand; that--that'll make an impression, I think, on the Royal
Academy, if--if _they take it in_."

"Ah! _if_ they take it in," said John Barret, smiling.

"Well," retorted Fred Auberly, "I know that is a point of uncertainty,
and I'm not very sanguine, because there is great lack of room.
Nevertheless, I mean to send it.  And you know, John, `faint heart never
won fair lady,' so--"

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a shrill whistle at
the top of the house, which, as it drew nearer, became identified with
the air of "Rule Britannia!"

"That's Willie Willders," said Barret, laughing.

"I guessed as much, and with your leave I'll call him in.  He knows of
my having become an inmate of his mother's house, and as he is probably
going home I would like to send a message to his mother.  Hallo,
Willie."

"Ay, ay, sir!" answered the youth, in the tones of a thoroughbred
seaman.  Not that Willie had ever been at sea, but he was so fond of
seamen, and had mingled with them so much at the docks, as well as those
of them who had become firemen, that he tried to imitate their gait and
tones.

"Come here, you scamp, and stop your noise."

"Certainly, sir," said Willie, with a grin, as he entered the room, cap
in hand.

"Going home, lad?" asked Fred.

"Yes, sir--at least in a permiscuous sort of way entertainin' myself as
I goes with agreeable talk, and improvin' obsarvation of the shop
winders, etceterrer."

"Will you take a message to your mother?"

"Sure-ly," answered Willie.

"Well, say to her that I have several calls to make to-night and may be
late in getting home, but she need not sit up for me as I have the
door-key; tell her not to forget to leave the door on the latch."

"Wery good, sir," said Willie.  "May I make so bold as to ask how Miss
Loo was when you seed her last?"

"Not well, I regret to say," replied Fred.

"Indeed!  I'm surprised to hear that, for she's agoin' out to tea
to-morrow night, sir."

"My surprise is greater than yours, lad; how d'you know that, and where
is she going to?" asked Auberly.

Here Willie explained in a very elaborate manner that a note had arrived
that forenoon from Miss Tippet, inviting Mr Tippet to tea the following
evening, and expressing a hope that he would bring with him his clerk,
"_Mister_" Willders, the brother of the brave fireman who had saved
Loo's life, and that Miss Louisa Auberly was to be there, and that Mr
Tippet had written a note accepting the same.

"Then you'll have to take another message from me, Willie.  Tell Miss
Tippet when you go to-morrow that I will give myself the pleasure of
looking in on her in the course of the evening," said Fred.  "Mr
Auberly is not to be there, is he?"

"No, not as I knows of."

"Well, good-night, Willie."

Willie took his departure, marching to the usual national air, and soon
after Fred Auberly bade his friend good-night and left him.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A SMALL TEA-PARTY.

Miss Tippet's tea-party began by the arrival of Willie Willders, who,
being fond of society, and regardless of fashion, understood his hostess
literally when she named her tea-hour!  For full half an hour,
therefore, he had the field to himself, and improved the occasion by
entertaining Miss Tippet and Emma Ward with an account of the wonderful
inventions that emanated from the fertile brain of Mr Thomas Tippet.

Strange to say, a deep and lasting friendship had sprung up between the
eccentric old gentleman and his volatile assistant.  Willie sympathised
so fully with his master in his wild schemes, and displayed withal such
an aptitude for mechanical contrivance, and such a ready appreciation of
complex theories, that Mr Tippet soon came to forget his extreme youth,
and to converse with him, propound schemes and new ideas to him, and
even to ask his advice; with as much seriousness as though he had been a
full-grown man.

This was of course very gratifying to Willie, who repaid his master's
condescension and kindness by devoting himself heart and soul to the
duties of what he styled his "profession."  He was a good deal put out
when his brother Frank asked him one day what his "profession" was, and
resolving never again to be placed in such an awkward position of
ignorance, asked his employer what was the name of his business, to
which the employer replied that it had no particular name; but, on being
urged by his assistant to give it a name, he suggested that he might, if
so disposed, style himself a poly-artist, which, he explained, meant an
artist of many occupations.  Willie felt that this might be translated
"jack-of-all-trades," but on mature consideration he resolved to adopt
it, in the belief that few people would understand what it meant, and
that thereby he would be invested with a halo of mystery, which was,
upon the whole, a gratifying reflection.

Gradually, however, Willie was led to diverge from his employer to his
brother Frank, in regard to whom Miss Tippet entertained the strongest
feelings of admiration, because of his courageous conduct in saving
Louisa Auberly.  Willie pursued this theme all the more willingly that
Emma appeared to be deeply interested in it.

Emma Ward was very romantic in her nature; yet she had a keen
appreciation of the ludicrous,--which caused her to appear somewhat
light-headed and giddy in the eyes of superficial observers; but she
possessed an underlying earnestness of soul, which displayed itself in a
thousand ways to those who had much intercourse with her.  She was an
ardent hero-worshipper; and while Miss Tippet was her heroine, Frank
Willders was, at that time, her _beau ideal_ of a hero, although she
only knew him from description.

Willie was still in the middle of a glowing account of a fire, in which
Frank and his friends Dale and Baxmore were the chief actors; and Emma
was listening with heightened colour, parted lips, and sparkling eyes,
when Matty Merryon opened the door and announced Mr Tippet.

That gentleman was still in the act of shaking his sister's hands with
both of his, and kissing her on both cheeks heartily, when Matty
announced Miss Deemas.

Matty, being Irish, allowed her soul to gush out too obviously in her
tones; so that her feelings towards the Eagle, though unexpressed, were
discernible.

Miss Deemas strode up to Miss Tippet, and pecked her on the right cheek,
much as an eagle might peck a tender rabbit, which it could slay and
devour if it chose, but which it preferred to spare for a time.  She was
immediately introduced to Mr Tippet, whom she favoured with a stiff
bow, intended to express armed neutrality in the meantime; with a
possibility, if not a probability, of war in the future.  The eccentric
gentleman felt chilled, but ventured to express an opinion in regard to
the weather, glancing for confirmation of the same towards the window,
through which he naturally enough expected to see the sky; but was
baffled by only seeing the green venetian blinds, which ruled off the
opposite houses in narrow stripes.  Before he had recovered himself to
make any further observation, Miss Deemas had attempted, in a
condescending way, to peck the cheek of Emma Ward; but that young lady,
feeling disinclined, so managed that she received the peck on her
forehead.

On Willie, Miss Deemas bestowed a glance of utter indifference, which
Willie replied to with a gaze of desperate defiance.

Then Miss Deemas seated herself on the sofa, and asked her "dear friend"
how she did, and how she felt, and whether things in general were much
as usual; from which elevated region of generalities she gradually
descended into the more particular sphere of gossip and scandal.

It is only just to Miss Tippet to say that the Eagle did not find her a
congenial bird of prey in this region.  On the contrary, she had to drag
her unwilling friend down into it; and as Miss Tippet was too
conscientious and kind-hearted to agree with her in her sweeping
censures and caustic observations and wilful misconstructions, it is
difficult to conceive wherein she (the Eagle) found pleasure in her
society.  Probably it was because she found in her one who would submit
meekly to any amount of contradiction, and listen patiently to any
amount of vituperative declamation.

"So it seems Mr Auberly has disinherited and dismissed his son, my
dear," said Miss Deemas, smoothing her dress with both hands, as though
she were about to lay Mr Auberly in her lap, and analyse him.

"I'm sorry to say that it is too true, Julia," answered Miss Tippet,
with a sigh.

"Ha! it's so like one of these creatures," said Miss Deemas, pursing her
thin lips; "so domineering, so towering, in their pride of mere physical
power."

Mr Tippet glanced at the Eagle in surprise, not being able to
understand to what sort of "creatures" she made reference.

"Poor Frederick," sighed Miss Tippet, "I don't know what he'll do (ring
the bell, Emma, darling); he's such a bold, high-spirited young man, and
it's all owing to his determination to take to--to what's-'is-name as a
profession (bring the tea, Matty).  It's very sad."

"That must be a new sort of profession," observed Miss Deemas pointedly.

"Oh!  I mean painting, you know.  It's impossible to arrange one's
things in such very correct language, you know, dear Julia; you are
really too--oh! did you hear of Joe Corney, and what's-his--fireman's
visit to Mrs Denman?  To be sure you did; I forgot it was in your
house.  It was such a funny account; you heard of it, brother (ring the
bell again, dear), didn't you?"

Mr Tippet, whose wonted vivacity was quite subdued by the freezing
influence of the Eagle, said that he had not heard of it; whereupon Miss
Tippet said that she had heard of it, and so had Willie Willders, who
had heard of it from his brother Frank, who had heard of it from Joe
Corney himself; and then she attempted to relate the matter, but failed,
and finally asked Willie to tell the story, which Willie did with much
gusto; looking at Miss Deemas all the time, and speaking in a very
positive tone, as if he thought she was doubting every word he said, and
was resolved to hurl it in her teeth, whether she chose to believe it or
not.

"Capital!" exclaimed Mr Tippet, laughing heartily, when Willie had
concluded; "what an energetic old lady she must be!  Really, I must get
introduced to her, and show her the self-acting fire-extinguisher I have
just invented.  You remember it, Willie?"  Willie nodded.  "I've laid it
aside for some time; but it is very nearly complete now.  A little more
work on it will finish it.  My only difficulty in regard to it is,
madam," he addressed himself to Miss Deemas here, "that it is apt to
burst, and I am uncertain whether or not to add a safety-valve to
prevent such a catastrophe, or to make the metal so very strong, that
nothing short of gunpowder would burst it; but then, you see, that would
make the whole affair too heavy.  However, these are only minor
difficulties of detail, which a little thought will overcome."

Miss Deemas received all this with a sinister smile, and replied with
the single word, "Oh!" after which she turned immediately to Miss
Tippet, and remarked that the weather had been unusually warm of late
for the season of the year, which remark so exasperated Willie Willders
that he turned with a face of crimson to Emma, and asked her if she
didn't feel a draught of cold air coming over her from somewhere, and
whether she would not sit nearer the fire, and farther away from the
window!

Willie meant this for an uncommonly severe cut; for Miss Deemas sat at
the end of the sofa, near the window!

Fortunately, at this point, Matty Merryon ushered in Loo Auberly, who
was instantly enfolded in Miss Tippet's arms, and thence transferred to
Emma's, in which she was led to the sofa, and gently deposited in the
softest corner.

"Darling Loo!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, with tears in her eyes; "you look
_so_ thin and pale."

There could be no doubt on that point.  Little Loo, as Emma styled her,
was worn to a shadow by sickness, which had hitherto baffled the
doctor's skill.  But she was a beautiful shadow; such a sweet, gentle
shadow, that one might feel thankful, rather than otherwise, to be
haunted by it.

"Pray don't mind me; I'm too tired to speak to you yet; just go on
talking.  I like to listen," said Loo softly.

With ready kindness, Miss Tippet at once sought to draw attention from
the child, by reverting to Mrs Denman; and Matty created a little
opportune confusion by stumbling into the room with the tea.

Matty usually tripped over the carpet at the door, and never seemed to
become wiser from experience.

"Poor Mrs Denman," said Miss Tippet, pouring out the tea; "it must have
been an awful shock; think of a (Sugar, brother?  I always forget), what
was I--oh, yes; think of a fireman seizing one round the (Cream, Willie?
I know you have a sweet tooth, so I don't need to ask if you take
sugar)--yes, he carried her down that dreadful what-d'ye-call-it, and
into the next house with nothing (A little more sugar, Julia?  No? )--
nothing on but her what's-'is-name.  Oh! it was sad; sad to lose all her
fine things, too--her furniture, and--and thingumies.  Do try a piece of
cake, brother."

"I know a worse case than hers," said Willie, with a knowing look.

"Do you?" exclaimed Miss Tippet.

"Oh! do tell it," cried Emma earnestly; "he's just been telling it to
me, and it is _so_ sad and interesting."

"Come, let's hear about it, lad," said Mr Tippet.

Thus encouraged, Willie related his adventure with the clown's family,
and told his tale with such genuine feeling, that Miss Tippet, Loo, and
Emma found their eyes moist when he had concluded.

There was a good deal of comment upon this subject, and Miss Deemas
animadverted very strongly upon actors in general and clowns in
particular.  As to ballet-girls, she could not find words to express her
contempt for them; but in reference to this Miss Tippet ventured to
rebuke her friend, and to say that although she could not and would not
defend the position of these unfortunates, yet she felt that they were
very much to be pitied, seeing that they were in many cases trained to
their peculiarly indelicate life by their parents, and had been taught
to regard ballet-dancing as quite a proper and legitimate
what's-its-name.  No doubt this was only a palliation of the life they
led, but she thought that if anyone was to be severely blamed in the
matter it was the people who went to witness and encourage such wicked
displays.

Miss Deemas dissented generally from all her friend's observations, and,
wishing to change the subject, asked Loo if her father was coming to
fetch her home.

"No," said Loo; "dear papa is not well to-night, but he is to send the
carriage for me.  Oh, I wish," she continued, reverting to the previous
subject, "I _wish_ I could do something for these poor people.  I'm so
very, very sorry for the fairy."

"So you can, if you choose," said Miss Deemas sharply.

"No, indeed I cannot," replied Loo in an earnest voice; "I'm too ill and
weak now to be of any use to anyone.  Once I was useful to dear papa,
but ever since the fire I have not been of use to anybody; only a
hindrance to them.  Since I have been ill I have thought much more about
what I read in the Bible, and I've had a great desire to do good in some
way or other, but how can I--so weak and helpless?"

Loo almost sobbed, for her sympathies had been awakened by Willie, and a
chord had been touched which had been vibrating in her breast for some
weeks past.

"Your father is rich, is he not?" asked the Eagle.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Well, a word to him may be the cause of much good, in the shape of
money at least, to people in distress; but rich people don't always like
to spend their money in that way."

Loo hung down her head and made no reply, for she knew that her father
did not like to part with money.  She had often heard him refuse to do
so in days gone by, even when very pathetic appeals (as she thought)
were made to him; and experience told her that it was in vain to look
for help in that quarter.

The party was now increased by the arrival of Frederick Auberly, who at
once infused life into everybody, except Miss Deemas, who had life
enough of her own, and would by no means accept the loan of any from
anyone else.  Fred therefore ignored her altogether, and told stories
and cracked jokes and sang songs as if no such female iceberg were
present.

Poor Loo was overjoyed to see him, and laying her head on his breast,
bade him speak away and not ask questions; only speak, and allow her to
listen and rest.

Fred obeyed, and at once began an earnest discussion with Willie as to
the best method of getting a stout gentleman out of a third-floor window
in case of fire, when Matty Merryon entered with a flushed face and said
that a fireman who would not give his name wished to see Willie Willders
for a minute; and she was inclined to think it was his brother.

"What!  Frank?" exclaimed Willie, rising to go downstairs.

"Stay, Willie," cried Miss Tippet eagerly; "don't go down.  Pray let me
have him up; I should so like to see him, and I'm sure so would Loo; the
man, you know, who went up the what's-its-name, and brought you--yes,
send him up, Matty."

"Plaze, mim, he won't come," replied the girl, "I know'd ye would like
to see him, an' axed him in."

"Tell him," said Miss Tippet, "that I request it as a favour."

While Matty was delivering this message, the Eagle took occasion to
sniff once or twice in a contemptuous manner, and wondered why people
worshipped men just because they happened to be big, and what they
called handsome.  For her part, she hated all men, but if she were to be
obliged to choose between any class (which she was thankful to say was
_not_ necessary in her case), she would certainly give the preference to
ugly men and small.

Willie Willders nodded his head approvingly, and, being exasperated into
a savage serio-comic condition, as well by the Eagle's voice and aspect
as by her sentiments, he said that she was quite right, and that if _he_
were a lady like her he would hold the same opinions, because then, said
he, "being stout, I could wallop my husband an' keep him down, an' the
contrast of his ugly face with mine would not be so obvious."

Frank's step on the stair fortunately prevented this open and desperate
attack being noticed.  Next moment all turned their eyes in breathless
expectation towards the door.

Being on duty, Frank appeared in fireman's costume, with the sailor-like
undress cap in his hand.  He bowed to the company, and apologised to
Miss Tippet for intruding, but he had wished to ask his brother Willie
to call at the fire station on his way home to convey a letter to his
mother, and merely meant to see him at the door.

"I'm _very_ glad you came, Mr Willders," said Miss Tippet, "for I
assure you we all regard you as the preserver of our dear Miss Auberly's
life when you went up the--the--thing.  Here she is.  You must shake--
that's it--so nice!"

The last part of Miss Tippet's remark referred to Loo stretching out her
hand to Frank, who advanced promptly and shook it with great tenderness.
He then shook hands with Fred, who expressed his regard for him in warm
terms; also with Mr Tippet, who paid him some enthusiastic compliments,
and said something to the effect that the parent stem from which two
such branches as he and Willie had grown must be a prime plant.

As he turned from Mr Tippet--who, being very short, appeared to be
looking up at a steeple while he delivered this opinion--Frank's eyes
encountered those of Emma Ward, who was gazing at him in such
undisguised admiration, that, being a somewhat bashful man, he felt a
little confused, and dropped his eyes, figuratively, on the floor.  Emma
blushed scarlet with shame at being caught in this way, and thereafter
became rigidly grave and indifferent.

When Frank again raised his eyes--which, by the way, he did
immediately--they encountered the eagle glance of Miss Deemas frowning
defiance on him, as being a sort of type or pattern specimen of his
highly objectionable race.  Had Miss Deemas been a man (which would have
gratified her more than she could have expressed) Frank could have met
the frown with a smile of pity.  As it was, he turned to the little
eager countenance of Miss Tippet, and felt deeper respect than ever for
the sex; thus showing that just as an exception proves a rule, so an
unfavourable contrast strengthens a cause.

"Pray sit down, Mr Willders," entreated Miss Tippet earnestly; "I
should like _so_ much to hear how you did it from your own lips, and how
you can possibly venture up such dreadful things, just like going up the
outside of the Monument.  Dear Loo, and you came down it, too; but, to
be sure, your eyes were shut, which was as well, for you were only in
your night--Ah, well, yes, _do_ sit down Mr Firem---Willders, I mean."

Frank thanked her, but declined, on the ground that he was on duty, and
that he feared he was doing wrong in even looking in on them for the few
minutes he had stayed.  "Good-night, ma'am," he continued, "good-night.
You'll call at the station on your way home, Willie?"

Willie said he would, and then all the company, excepting the Eagle,
shook hands with the stalwart fireman, looking up at him as if he were a
hero just returned from the proverbial "hundred fights."  Even Emma Ward
condescended to shake hands with him at parting.

"Perhaps you'll be in the middle of a fire this very night," cried Tom
Tippet, following him to the door.

"It is quite possible," said Frank, with a smile.

Miss Deemas was heard to snort contemptuously at this.

"Perhaps you may even save more lives!" cried Miss Tippet.

"It may be so," answered Frank, again smiling, but evidently feeling
anxious to make his escape, for he was not one of those men who like to
be lionised.

"Only think!" exclaimed Miss Tippet as Frank quitted the room.

"Ha!" ejaculated the Eagle, in a tone which was meant to convey her
well-known opinion that women would do such things quite as well as men
if their muscles were a little stronger.

It is but justice to Miss Deemas to explain that she did not champion
and exalt women out of love to her sex.  Love was not one of her strong
points.  Rampant indignation against those whom she bitterly termed
"lords of creation" was her strong tower of refuge, in which she
habitually dwelt, and from the giddy summit of which she hurled would-be
destruction on the doomed males below.  Among her various missiles she
counted the "wrongs of her sex" the most telling shaft, and was in
consequence always busy sharpening and polishing and flourishing this
dread weapon in the eyes of her friends as well as her enemies,
although, of course, she only launched it at the latter.

Perched on her self-exalted eyrie, Miss Deemas did not know that there
was a pretty large number of her own sex in the comparatively humble
multitude below, who, while they clearly recognised the "wrongs of
women" (and preferred to call them "misfortunes") did not attribute them
solely, or even largely, to the wickedness of men, but to the combined
wickedness and folly of society in general, and who were of opinion that
such matters were to be put right by patient, persevering, laborious,
and persistent efforts on the part of men and women acting in concert,
and not by the unwomanly acts and declamation of ladies of the Deemas
stamp, whom they counted the worst enemies of the good cause--some
wittingly, others unwittingly so.  These people among the comparatively
humble multitude below, also had the penetration to perceive that the
so-called "wrongs" did not lie all on one side, but that there was a
pretty large class of the so-called "lords" who went about the world
habitually in a sad and disgraceful state of moral semi-nakedness, in
consequence of their trousers having been appropriated and put on by
their better-halves, and that therefore it was only meet that men and
women should be united (as indeed they were from the first intended to
be) in their efforts to put each other's "wrongs" to "rights."

In addition to all this, these weak-minded (shall we call them?) people,
moving in the comparatively humble multitude below, entertained the
belief that rising in antagonism to the male sex in this matter was not
only unnecessary and unjust and impolitic, but also ungenerous, for they
reflected with much calm satisfaction that the "lords" are, after all,
"under woman's control."

But Miss Deemas and all the ladies of the Eagle stamp did not think so.
They did not believe that a strong mind means a mind strong enough to
exercise its own powers to the ascertainment and reception of truth and
the rejection of falsehood and fallacy; strong enough, under the
influence of God's love, to perceive the paths of duty in all their
ramifications, and to resolve to follow them.  They did not believe that
a high spirit, in the true sense of the word, meant a spirit broken down
altogether and brought into subjection to its owner's, not another's,
will.  By no means.  A strong mind with the Deemas-eagles meant
unutterable and unalterable obstinacy, blind as a bat, with the great
guns blazing all round, and the colours nailed to the mast.  High spirit
with them meant the inclination--ever present, always strong, and often
asserted--to seize all the rest of the world, male and female, and lead
it by the nose!

The Deemas-eagles as a class receive ready-made opinions, fabricated by
someone else, and call them their own--receiving them originally and
holding them subsequently, not because they are true, but because they
are pleasant to their eyes and sweet to their taste.  They hold them
stoutly, too, probably because, having no foundation, they would be apt
to fall and get broken if not upheld.

Having said thus much in behalf of the Deemas eagles, we now dismiss
them, with an apology to the reader.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A FIREMAN'S LIFE.

The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet's
dwelling and walked briskly away.  On turning a corner he came upon one
of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against
the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant way, as though they
knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome
war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.

On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the
moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal
habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest.  Sam himself was
leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing
contemplatively along the street.

"Well, Sam, what news?" inquired Frank as he came up.

"That you, Willders?" said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on
his good-humoured features.  "I thought it must be the giant they're
exhibitin' in Saint James's Hall just now, takin' a stroll at night to
escape the boys.  Why, when do you mean to stop growing?"

"I don't mean to interfere with Nature at all," replied Frank; "and I
believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow
to."

"Well, what's the news?" inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow
residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his
friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world
for himself.

"Nothing particular," said Frank, leaning against the escape; "only a
chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a
first-floor burnt out the day before."

"How's Thompson?" asked Forest.

"Poorly, I fear," said Frank, with a shake of his head.  "The sprained
ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the
injury to his spine from the engine is more serious."

"Ah! poor fellow!" said Forest, "he's just a little too reckless.  How
came he by the sprain?"

"It was in the basement of a bookbinder's in Littleton Street," said
Frank, lighting a cigar.  "We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting
there found three engines at work.  Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to
go down into the basement.  It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that
I couldn't see half-an-inch before my nose.  We broke through the
windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water.  The engines had been
at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than
we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it,
an' before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four
feet deep.  I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst.  He rose
gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out.  It was in
trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain.  You've
heard how he came by the other mishap?"

"Yes, it was gallopin' down Ludgate Hill, wasn't it?"

"Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and
before he got up it was on him.  By good fortune it did not go over him;
it only bruised his back; but it's worse than we thought it would be, I
fear."

"Ah! one never knows," said Forest gravely.  "There's one man Jackson,
now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had
brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping
for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him.  We all
thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not
five minutes after he steps out of a window all right--only a scratch or
two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of
stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his
ankle so bad that he's bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the
boy."

"Ah! it was worth the sprain," said Frank.

"It was," responded Forest.

"Well, good-night," said Frank, resuming his walk.

Samuel Forest responded "good-night," and then, getting into his box,
sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two,
trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a
corner, began to peruse it.

Sam was of a literary turn of mind.  He read a great deal during his
lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours
were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box.  His helmet
hung on a peg beside him.  His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small
cap covered his head.  Looking at him in his snug and brightly
illuminated little apartment, he appeared--by contrast with the
surrounding darkness--inexpressibly comfortable.  Nevertheless, Sam
Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and
that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a
biting December night.

While deeply immersed in his book, Sam heard the sound of approaching
footsteps, and pricked up his ears.  He was a good judge of such sounds.
As they drew near, he quietly took off his cap, put on his helmet, and
stepped from his box.  The street was very silent; and, perhaps, not one
of the hundreds of sleepers there thought of the solitary man who held
vigil, and was so alert to do them service, if the hour of their
extremity should come.

But a cry arose that startled them--"Fire! fire!!"

Another moment, and two men dashed round the corner, yelling at the top
of their voices.  Gasping for breath, they named the locality.  Almost
before they had done so, two policemen were on the spot, and in another
moment the fire-escape was in motion.  Instructed by the conductor, the
two strangers and the policemen lent their willing aid.  Before ten
minutes had passed, the tall machine was run up to a burning house, the
lower part of which was blazing; while, from the upper windows, frantic
cries were heard for help, and sundry figures in dishabille were seen
waving their arms.  The escape was run up, and one after another the
inmates were rescued from their perilous position.

While this scene was enacting Frank was pursuing his way to the Regent
Street Fire Station; but news of the fire got there before him.  He
arrived just in time to don his helmet and take his place on the engine.
Away they went, and in ten minutes after the arrival of the
fire-escape, they dashed up, almost running into an engine which
appeared from an opposite direction.

The fire was blazing brightly by this time, and the whole neighbourhood
was in a state of commotion and excitement.

The two engines were got to work with as little delay as possible.  A
body of police kept the gathering crowd back, and soon volumes of steam
began to mingle with the black smoke of the burning building.  The
superintendent was early on the scene, and he directed Frank and another
fireman to try to persuade the people in the adjoining houses to remain
quiet, and not throw their furniture over the window; but this, some of
them would not consent to do.  It was plain that one or two were mad
with fear and excitement; and as the ruling passion is strong in death,
so it would seem to be by no means weak in the midst of danger from
fire; for many of them bent their whole energies to the saving of their
goods and chattels--regardless of their lives.

One stout old gentleman, in particular, was seen at a third-floor
window, heaving out chairs and stools and books, and small tables, and
clocks, and even quantities of crockery, with desperate energy, to the
great danger of the onlookers, at whose feet the various articles fell,
and were dashed to atoms!

Frank darted up the stairs that led to this man's apartments, and burst
in upon him.

"Oh! come along, fireman; help me to save my things," he exclaimed, as
he struggled with superhuman efforts to thrust a table through the
window, which was too small to permit its passage.

"Stop, sir, are you mad?" cried Frank sternly.

"Help me! help me!  Oh! fireman, it will be all burned.  Fire! fire!
fire!!!"

His voice rose into a fierce yell, as he strove in vain with the table.

"You're quite safe," cried Frank, holding him; "_your_ house ain't
alight, and the engines have got it almost under."

But Frank spoke to deaf ears; so he coolly lifted the man in his arms,
carried him kicking downstairs, and placed him in charge of a policeman.

Just then, a cry was raised that there were two kegs of gunpowder in one
of the shops on the ground floor.  The owner of the shop came up in a
frantic state, and corroborated this statement.

"It'll blow the house to bits, sir," he said to Mr Braidwood.

"Of course it will," remarked the latter in a quiet voice.  "Come here,
my man," he added, taking the shopkeeper apart from the crowd, and
questioning him closely.

Immediately after, he ordered the engines to play on a particular part
of the building.

Just then, Frank came up to the superintendent.

"There's gunpowder in the back-shop somewhere, I'm told, sir; shall I go
in for it?"

"No, Willders; you couldn't find it in the smoke.  Take the branch, lad,
and get up into that window above the door."

Frank sprang to obey.  At the same time, Mr Braidwood suddenly seized a
horse-cloth, and dashed in through the smoke.  In a few seconds, he
returned with one of the kegs of powder in his arms.  Giving it to one
of his men, he darted in again, and speedily re-issued with the second
keg of powder, amid the frantic cheering of the crowd.  Having done
this, he continued to superintend the men until the fire was got under,
which was soon accomplished, having been attacked promptly and with
great vigour soon after it broke out.

"You needn't wait, Mr Dale," said Braidwood, going up to his foreman.
"It's all safe now.  I'll keep one engine; but you and your lads get off
to your beds as fast as ye can."

Dale obeyed, and a few minutes after, the engine was galloping
homewards.

Willie Willders was in the station when it arrived, and so was Fred
Auberly, who, having accompanied Willie, had got into such an
interesting talk with the sub-engineer in charge, that he forgot time,
and was still in animated conversation when the wheels were heard in the
distance.

The three were out at the door in an instant.

On came the engine, the horses' feet and the wheels crashing harshly in
the silent night.  They came round the corner with a sharp swing.
Either the driver had become careless, or he was very sleepy that night,
for he dashed against an iron post that stood at the corner, and carried
off two wheels.  The engine went full thirty yards on the two
off-wheels, before it came to the ground, which it did at last with a
terrific crash, throwing the firemen violently to the ground.

The sub-engineer and Fred and Willie sprang forward in great alarm; but
the most of the men leaped up at once, and one or two of them laughed,
as if to show that they had got no damage.  But one of them lay extended
on the pavement.  It needed not a second glance to tell that it was
Frank Willders.

"Lift him gently, lads," said Dale, who was himself severely bruised.

"Stop," exclaimed Frank in a low voice; "I've got no harm except to my
left leg.  It's broken, I think.  There's no use of lifting me till you
get a cab.  I'll go straight home, if--" He fainted as he spoke.

"Run for a cab, Willie," said Fred Auberly.

Willie was off in a moment.  At the same instant, a messenger was
despatched for Dr Offley, and in a short time after that, Frank
Willders was lying on his mother's sofa, with his left leg broken below
the knee.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

MR JAMES AUBERLY.

With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully
stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed
his sick child.

Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft
point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for
through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an
expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo's emaciated form.

Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being
accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident
effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child's heart.

"Dear papa," she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her
coverings.  "I want you to do me a favour."  She said this timidly, for
she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting
favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt
emboldened to make her request.

"I will do it, dear," said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as
physically, as he had never bent before--for the prospect of Loo's death
had been presented to him by the physicians.  "I will do it, dear, if I
can, and if the request be reasonable."

"Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!" cried Loo,
eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.

"Hush, darling," said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; "you must
not excite yourself so.  I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has
become an artist in spite of my objections."

"Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he
used to be, and go to the office with you," said Loo.

Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to
return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been
filled up.  Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and
a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about
such things, because she did not understand them.  All he could say was
that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return.  He
did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former
position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her
brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied
with this cold concession.

"Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?" said Mr
Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be
before "the fire."  (The family always talked of the burning of Mr
Auberly's house as "the fire," to the utter repudiation of all other
fires--the great one of monumental fame included.)

Loo meditated some time before replying.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed suddenly, "I _have_ another favour to ask.  How
stupid of me to forget it.  I want you very much to go and see a fairy
that lives--"

"A fairy, Loo!" said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his
face.  "You--you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and
try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear."

"It's not nonsense," said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which
her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; "it's
quite true, papa," she continued energetically! "it _is_ a fairy I want
you to go and see--she's a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near
London Bridge, and she's been very ill, and is so poor that they say
she's dying for want of good food."

"Who told you about her, Loo?"

"Willie Willders," she replied, "he has been to see her and her father
the clown a good many times."

Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound
pleasantly in his ears.

"_Do_ go to see her, pray, dear papa," pleaded Loo with much
earnestness, "and give her some money.  You know that darling mamma
said, just before she was taken away," (the poor child persistently
refused to use the expression "when she died"), "she wanted you to take
me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I've often
thought of that since--especially when I have come to the verse in my
Bible which tells me to `consider the poor,' and I have often--oh, so
very often--longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that
you never had time, you know," (the stiff man winced a little at this)
"but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I'm too weak to
go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and
tell her I will go to see her some day--if--if God makes me strong
again."

The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary
wince, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of
toothache.  It instantly passed away.  Still, as in the case of
toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be
something very sharp and difficult to bear looming in the not distant
future.

Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on
the head of the couch.  Looking up quickly with a smile--still tinged
with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid
of in a day--he said:

"_Well_, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but
somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address."

"Oh, but Willie Willders knows it," said Loo.

"But where is Willie Willders?" objected her father.

"Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet's place."

"Well, we shall soon find out," said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the
bell.

Hopkins answered the summons.

Stiff, thin, tall, sedate, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different
from the personage we saw but lately plunging like a maniac at the
fire-bell!  Could it have been thee, Hopkins?  Is it possible that
anything so spruce, dignified, almost stately, could have fallen so very
low?  We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently
furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature
sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene summer sky being
engulfed in the black thunderstorm!

"Hopkins!" said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, "go to this
address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him
here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and
bring him here without delay.  Take a cab."

Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers
projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly
understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and
would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working
forefingers and thumbs in such menial employment.  Hopkins's nose
appeared to be affected with something of the same spirit.  Then Hopkins
bowed--that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing
his stiff upper man to form an obtuse angle with his rigid legs for one
moment, recovered his perpendicular--and retired.

Oh!  Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round
as a hoop, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay
violent hands on--well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in
kindness to thee, learn the song which says--

  "Teach, O teach me to forget."

Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins
drove to Mr Tippet's residence, where he learned that Willie had gone
home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill
before the door of Mrs Willders' humble abode.  The door was opened by
Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.

"Is William Willders at 'ome?" said Hopkins.

"I rather think he is," replied Willie, with a grin; "who shall I say
calls on him--eh?  You'd better send up your card."

Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled,
and said he would walk in.

"I think," said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, "that
you'd as well stop where you are, for there's a invalid in the
drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged 'cept the kitchen,
which of course I could not show _you_ into.  Couldn't you deliver your
message?  I could manage to carry it if it ain't too heavy."

In a state of uncertainty as to how far this was consistent with his
dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his
message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.

Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed
in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and
motionless.  His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a
free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a
young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted with strong sympathy, but
appeared afraid to show it.  Mrs Willders, with a stocking and
knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed,
looking anxious, but hopeful and mild.  An open Bible which lay on a
small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the
visitors entered.

"My good sir," said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner,
"I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state,
and I'm quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends.  When I
think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire--
fire--things--what-d'ye-call-ums.  What _do_ you call them?"

"Fire-escapes, ma'am," answered Frank, with a smile.

"Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me,
I'm sure!)  But as I was saying, it makes one shudder to think of; and--
and--how does your leg feel _now_?" said Miss Tippet, forgetting what
she had intended to say.

"Pretty well," replied Frank; "the doctor tells me it has broken without
splintering, and that I'll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty
again."

"Fit for duty, young man!" exclaimed Miss Tippet; "do you mean to say
that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover?  Have
you not received warning enough?"

"Why, madam," said Frank, "some one must look after the fires, you know,
else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work."

"Like the work!" cried Miss Tippet, in amazement; "like to be almost
smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset
off what's-its-names, and fall down fire--fire--things, and break all
your legs and arms!"

"Well--no, I don't like all that," said Frank, laughing; "but I like the
vigour and energy that are called forth in the work, and I like the
object of the work, which is to save life and property.  Why," exclaimed
Frank enthusiastically, "it has all the danger and excitement of a
soldier's life without the bloody work, and with better ends in view."

"Nay, nay, Frank," said the peaceful Mrs Willders, "you must not say
`better ends,' because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one's
native land."

"A very just observation," said Miss Tippet, nodding approval.

"Why, mother, who would have expected to hear _you_ standing up for the
red-coats in this fashion?" said Frank.

"I stand up for the blue-jackets too," observed Mrs Willders meekly;
"they fight for their country as well."

"True, mother," rejoined Frank; "but I did not refer to ultimate ends, I
only thought of the immediate results in connection with those engaged.
The warrior fights, and, in so doing, destroys life and property.  The
fireman fights, and in doing so protects and preserves both."

"Hear! hear!" interrupted Willie; "but the copy-book says `Comparisons
are _odiows_!' don't it?  Mother, here's a fathom and two inches or so
of humanity as wants me to go with him to Mr Auberly.  I s'pose Frank
can get along without me for a little while--eh?"

"Certainly, my son; why does he want you?"

"Don't know.  P'raps he's goin' to offer to make me his secretary.  But
you don't seem at all alarmed at the prospect of my being carried off by
a flunkey."

"You'll come back, dearie, I doubt not."

"Don't you?  Oh, very well; then I'll just look after myself.  If I
don't return, I'll advertise myself in the _Times_.  Good-bye."

Willie returned to the door and announced that he was ready to go.

"But where is William?" asked Hopkins.

"Mister William Willders stands before you," said the boy, placing his
hand on his heart and making a bow.  "Come now, Long-legs," he added,
seizing Hopkins by the arm and pushing him downstairs and into the cab.
Leaping in after him he shut the door with a bang.  "Now then, cabby,
all right, Beverly Square, full split; sixpence extra if you do it
within the half!"

Away they went, and in a few seconds were in the Mall driving at a
rattling pace.

"See that house?" asked Willie, so suddenly as to startle Hopkins, who
was quite overwhelmed by the vigour and energy of his young companion.

"Eh! which! the one with the porch before the door?"

"No, no, stoopid! the old red-brick house with the limbs of a vine all
over the front of it, and the skeleton of a Virginia creeper on the
wall."

"Yes, I see it," said Hopkins, looking out.

"Ah, a friend o' mine lives there.  I'm on wisitin' terms there, I am.
Now then, mind your eye, pump-handle," cried Willie; "the turn's rather
sharp--hallo!"

As they swung round into the Bayswater Road the cab came in contact with
a butcher's cart, which, being the lighter vehicle, was nearly upset.
No serious damage resulted, however, and soon after they drew up at the
door of the house next Mr Auberly's; for that gentleman still occupied
the residence of his friend.

"Master Willders," said Hopkins, ushering him into the presence of Mr
Auberly, who still sat at the head of the couch.

Willie nodded to Loo and then to her father.

"Boy," said the latter, beckoning Willie to approach, "my daughter
wishes me to go and visit a poor family near London Bridge.  She tells
me you know their name and address."

"The fairy, you know," said Loo, explaining.

"Ah, the Cattleys," answered Willie.

"Yes," resumed Mr Auberly.  "Will you conduct me to their abode?"

In some surprise Willie said that he would be happy to do so, and then
asked Loo how she did.

While Mr Auberly was getting ready, Willie was permitted to converse
with Loo and Mrs Rose, who was summoned to attend her young mistress.
Presently Mr Auberly returned, bade Mrs Rose be very careful of the
invalid, and then set off with Willie.

At first the boy felt somewhat awed by the remarkably upright figure
that stalked in silence at his side, but as they continued to thread
their way through the streets he ventured to attempt a little
conversation.

"Weather's improvin', sir," said Willie, looking up.  "It is," replied
Mr Auberly, looking down in surprise at the boldness of his small
guide.

"Good for the country, sir," observed Willie.

Mr Auberly, being utterly ignorant of rural matters, thought it best to
say nothing to this.

We may add that Willie knew just as little (or as much), and had only
ventured the remark because he had often heard it made in every possible
variety of weather, and thought that it would be a safe observation,
replete, for all he knew to the contrary, with hidden wisdom.

There was silence after this for some time.

"D'you know Mr Tippet well, sir?" inquired Willie suddenly.

"Ye--yes; oh yes, I know him _pretty_ well."

"Ah, he's a first-rater," observed Willie, with a look of enthusiasm;
"you've no notion what a trump he is.  Did you hear ever of his noo
machine for makin' artificial butter?"

"No," said Mr Auberly, somewhat impatiently.

"Ah, it's a wonderful invention, that is, sir."

"Boy," said Mr Auberly, "will you be so good as to walk behind me?"

"Oh, _cer'nly_, sir," said Willie, with a profound bow, as he fell to
the rear.

They walked on in silence until they came to the vicinity of the
Monument, when Mr Auberly turned round and asked Willie which way they
were to go now.

"Right back again," said Willie.

"How, boy; what do you mean?"

"We've overshot the mark about half a mile, sir.  But, please, I thought
you must be wishin' to go somewhere else first, as you led the way."

"Lead the way, _now_, boy," said Mr Auberly, with a stern look.

Willie obeyed, and in a few minutes they were groping in the dark
regions underground which Mr Cattley and his family inhabited.  With
some difficulty they found the door, and stood in the presence of "the
fairy."

Thin though the fairy had been when Willie saw her last, she might have
been called fat compared with the condition in which they now found her.
She appeared like a mere shadow, with a delicate skin thrown over it.
A bad transparency would have been more substantial in appearance.  She
lay alone on her lonely pallet with a farthing candle beside her, which
cast a light sufficient only to make darkness visible.  Being near the
poor invalid, it caused her large dark eyes to glitter in an awful
manner.

Willie at once forgot his companion, and running up to the fairy, seized
her hand, and asked her how she did.

"Pretty well, Willie.  It's kind of you to come and see me so often."

"Not a bit, Ziza; you know I like it; besides, I've only come to-day to
show a gentleman the way."

He pointed to Mr Auberly, who had stopped short in the doorway, but who
now advanced and sat down beside the invalid, and put to her several
formal questions in a very stately and stiff manner, with a great
assumption of patronage.  But it was evident that he was not accustomed
to the duty of visiting the sick, and, like little boys and girls when
they sit down to write a letter, was very much at a loss what to say!
He began by asking the fairy about her complaint, and exhausted every
point that entered into his imagination in reference to that.  Then he
questioned her as to her circumstances; after which he told her that he
had been sent to see her by his daughter Louisa, who was herself very
ill, owing to the effects of a fire in his own house.

At this point the child became interested, and came to his relief by
asking a great many eager and earnest questions about Loo.  She knew
about the fire in Beverly Square and its incidents, Willie having often
related them to her during his visits; and she knew Mr Auberly by name,
and was interested in him, but his frigid manner had repelled her, until
he spoke of Loo having sent him to see her.

"Oh, I've been so sorry about Miss Loo, sir," said Ziza, raising her
large eyes full in Mr Auberly's face; "I've heard of her, you know,
from Willie, and when I've been lying all alone here for hours and hours
together, I have wondered how she spent her time, and if there were kind
people about her to keep up her spirits.  It's so strange that she and I
should have been both hurt by a fire, an' both of us so different every
way.  I _do_ hope she'll get better, sir."

Mr Auberly became suddenly much interested in the fairy, for just as
"love begets love," so does interest beget interest.  His feelings
having been roused, his tongue was loosed, and forthwith he enjoyed a
delightful conversation with the intelligent child; not that there was
any remarkable change as to the matter of what was spoken, but there was
a vast change in the manner of speaking it.

Willie also chimed in now and then, and volunteered his opinions in a
way that would have called forth a sharp rebuke from his patron half an
hour before; but he was permitted to speak, even encouraged, now, for
Mr Auberly was being tickled pleasantly; he was having his feelings and
affections roused in a way that he had never thought of or tried before;
he was gathering golden experiences that he had never stooped to touch
before, although the mine had been under his feet all his life, and his
path had been strewn with neglected nuggets from the cradle--fortunately
not, as yet, to the grave!  Ziza's Bible lay on the counterpane close to
her wasted little hand.  While she was talking of Loo, with deep
sympathy beaming out of her eyes and trembling in her tones, Mr Auberly
laid his hand inadvertently on it.  She observed the action, and said--

"Are you going to read and pray with me, sir?"

Mr Auberly was taken very much aback indeed by this question.

"Well--no," said he, "that is--if--fact, I have not brought my
prayer-book with me; but--but--I will read to you if you wish it."

Sympathy was gone now; the fairy felt that, and, not clearly
understanding why, wondered at it.  She thanked her visitor, however,
and shut her eyes, while Mr Auberly opened the Bible and cleared his
voice.  His confusion was only momentary; still the idea that he could
be confused at all by two mere children in such a wretched cellar so
nettled the worthy man, that he not only recovered his self-possession,
but read a chapter with all the solemn dignity of tone and manner that
he would have assumed had he been officiating in Saint Paul's or
Westminster Abbey.  This was such a successful essay, and overawed his
little congregation so terribly, that for a moment he thought of
concluding with the benediction; but, being uncertain whether he could
go correctly through it, he wisely refrained.

Thereafter he rose, and bade the fairy good-night.

"Your father does not return till late, I suppose?" he said, while he
held her hand.

"No; it is morning generally before he gets away.  The pantomimes are
hurting him, I fear, for he's not so active as he once was, and he says
he feels the falls very bad."

"Poor man!  It's very sad; but I suppose it's the usual way with that
class of men.  Well, goodnight again."

"Good-night, sir!" responded the fairy, with a bright smile, "and thank
you very much for your visit.  Good-night, Willie."

Willie said good-night in such a sulky tone, and followed Mr Auberly to
the door with such a reckless swagger, that the fairy gazed after him in
unutterable surprise.  After shutting the door with a bang, he suddenly
opened it again, and said in a loud voice--

"I say, I'll get my wages day arter to-morrow.  I'll bring you a couple
o' bobs then.  It's all I can afford just now, for cigars are dear.  If
you're hard up for wittles in the meantime, just grin and bear it;
you'll not die, you know, you'll only get thinner.  I _have_ heard that
a bit o' boiled shoe-leather ain't a bad thing to keep one easy till
relief comes."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr Auberly in the distance, and bustling back as
lie spoke; "I quite forgot; how stupid of me!  I was directed by my
daughter to give you this."

He took a ten-pound note from his purse, and put it into the fairy's
hand.

"This is from Louisa," he continued, "and I may add that it is the
savings from her pocket-money.  I did not wish the dear child to part
with it, and said I would give it to you from myself; but she was so
urgent, and seemed so distressed when I refused my consent, that I gave
in; so you have to thank my daughter, not me."

Mr Auberly smiled and nodded as he turned to go, and there was really
very little grimness in the smile on this occasion--very little indeed!
Willie also nodded with great violence and frequency; he likewise winked
with one eye, and otherwise sought to indicate that there were within
him sundry deep and not easily expressed thoughts and feelings, which
were, upon the whole, of a satisfactory nature.

As for the fairy, she never once smiled or thanked Mr Auberly, but
simply stared at him with her lustrous eyes open to their very widest,
and she continued to stare at the door, as though she saw him through
it, for some time after they were gone.  Then she turned suddenly to the
wall, thanked God, and burst into tears--glad tears, such as only those
can weep who have unexpectedly found relief when their extremity was
greatest.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A CHANGE IN FORTUNE.

There is nothing more surprising in regard to sublunary matters than the
way in which unexpected events arise out of what may be called
unintentional causes.

When David Boone and his friend Gorman planned the insurance and
destruction of the toy shop and its contents, they no more expected that
the very first steps towards that end would result in the conversion of
a poor into a flourishing business, than they expected that the
expression of a wish would convert Poorthing Lane into Beverly Square;
yet so it was.

Poor David was rendered so desperate by his straits, and so anxious to
escape from the crime into which his friend sought to plunge him, that
he meditated suicide; but, lacking the courage to accomplish this, he
relieved his feelings by carrying out the details of his business and
the preliminary steps of his plan, with the wild and reckless energy of
a maniac.  The more he thought of the meshes which Gorman had cast
around him, the more did he regard escape impossible.  He therefore
sought relief in action.  He not only talked to his neighbours (as per
agreement) about his rapidly increasing business, but he made purchases
on a scale more extensive than he had ever before contemplated, even in
his dreams.  Being convinced that ruin, sooner or later, was his doom,
he indulged in the most extravagant excesses, with much of the feeling
which prompts some seamen, when the ship is sinking, to break into the
spirit room and spend the short remnant of life in jollity.  He
experienced a sort of savage delight in ordering right and left from
wholesale dealers in town and country, and even went so far as to write
to Germany for toys, using the name of a well-known London house which
had hitherto (and justly) believed him to be an honest man.  The result
of this was that Poorthing Lane was besieged for some time by railway
vans, and waggons so huge that apparently an inch more added to their
bulk would have rendered their passage impossible.  Great deal boxes
were constantly being unpacked in front of Mr Boone's door, much to the
annoyance of Miss Tippet, who could not imagine how it happened that her
sedate and slow-going landlord had got such a sudden increase of
business.  Little did she think, poor lady, that this was the fuel with
which it was intended to roast her alive!

Some of the smaller accounts for goods thus purchased Boone paid at once
with the money furnished to him by Gorman, and thus got credit for being
a capitalist.  Others he deferred payment of until a more convenient
season.

His friend Gorman, who would not have bent the joint of his little
finger to have saved him from destruction, was so anxious to get up a
good appearance, for the sake of getting the insurance effected
advantageously, that he did his best to carry out his part of the plan,
and, being a man of energy who in the paths of virtue might have risen
to a high position among men, he succeeded beyond his expectation.
Crowds of purchasers were sent by him to the shop of "the celebrated
toy-man."  Some were mere decoy-ducks, who came and went (for a
consideration) pretty frequently, and only "priced" the goods.  Others
were genuine purchasers, and between the two they created so much
traffic in the toy-shop, that the multitude--so difficult to move by
mere suasion, but so prone to follow blindly in the wake of a senseless
rush, when once the rush takes place--began to move in the direction of
the toyshop, and shortly before Christmas the demand for toys was so
great, that Boone had to engage two assistants to carry on the business,
and even the lane itself began to feel the benefit of the sudden
increase of traffic.

All this was patent to the eyes of David Boone, but he was so
overwhelmed with a sense of the guilt he was about to incur, and the
deception he was even then practising, that he regarded the whole affair
as a hollow bubble, which would soon burst and leave nothing behind.
Even the rapid increase of the credit-balance in his bank-book did not
affect his opinion, for he was not much of a financier, and, knowing
that his transactions were founded on deception, he looked on the
balance as being deceptive also.

Not so thought Gorman.  That wily individual perceived, to his
amazement, that things were taking a turn which had never been
contemplated, so he silently looked on and wondered, and chuckled and
resolved to abide his time.

As prosperity flowed in upon him, David Boone became more insane--for
his condition of mind was little, if at all, short of temporary
insanity--and his proceedings became more eccentric than ever.  Among
other things, he became suddenly smitten with a desire to advertise, and
immediately in the columns of the tapers appeared advertisements to the
effect that "The Celebrated Toy Emporium" was to be found in Poorthing
Lane.  Finding that this increased his business considerably, he hit
upon a plan of advertising which has been practised rather extensively
of late years in London.  He sent out an army of boys with pots of
whitewash and brushes, with directions to print in rough but large
legible letters the words, "Who's Boone?" on all the blank walls of the
metropolis, and in the papers he answered the question by having printed
under the same title, "Why, the manager of the Toy Emporium, to be sure,
in Poorthing Lane."  He also advertised specially that he had in stock,
"an assortment of 500 golden-haired dolls from Germany, full-dressed,
half-dressed, and naked."

This last was irresistible.  Thousands of young hearts beat high at the
mere thought of such numbers--"with _golden_ hair too!" and dozens of
mammas, and papas too, visited Poorthing Lane in consequence.

In course of time David Boone's eyes began to open to the fact that he
was rapidly making a fortune.

It was after the bustle of the Christmas season was over that he made
this discovery.  One of his new assistants, a young man named Lyall, was
the means of opening his employer's eyes to the truth.  Lyall was a
clever accountant, and had been much surprised from the first that Boone
kept no regular system of books.  At the end of the year he suggested
that it would be well to take stock and find out the state of the
business.  Boone agreed.  Lyall went to work, and in a short time the
result of his labours showed, that after all debts were paid, there
would remain a satisfactory credit-balance at the bank.

On the evening of the day on which this marvellous fact was impressed on
Boone's mind, Gorman called, and found his friend rubbing his hands, and
smiling benignantly in the back room.

"You seem jolly," said Gorman, sitting down, as usual, by the fire, and
pulling out, as usual, the short pipe.  "Business gittin' on well?"

"It is," said Boone, standing with his back to the fire, and swaying
himself gently to and fro; "things don't look so bad.  I can pay you the
arrears of rent now."

"Oh, can you?" said Gorman.  "Ah!"

"Yes, and I'm in a position to pay you fifty pounds of the debt I owe
you besides," said Boone.

"And a bill at three months for the balance?" inquired Gorman.

No, he could not venture to do that exactly, but he hoped to pay a
further instalment before the end of three months.

"Humph!  How much may the profits be?"

Boone could not say precisely, not having had all his accounts squared,
but he believed they were considerable.

"I'll be bound they are," said Gorman with a growl; "you won't want to
set things alight now, I daresay."

"Well, I think it'll be as well to wait a bit, and let us make hay while
this sunshine goes on."

"Let _you_ make hay, you mean?"

"Oh, as to that, the most of it will go to your stack for some time to
come, Gorman."

"H'm! and what about the insurance?"

"Well, you know," observed Boone, "it's of no use paying the premium for
nothing.  As we don't mean to set the place alight, you know."

"Ay, but the life insurance, I mean," said Gorman.

Boone laughed, and observed that he thought it best not to die just at
that particular time, whereupon Gorman laughed, too, and said he was
about right, and that it would be as well to delay both events in the
meantime; after saying which, he took his leave in better humour than
usual, for Gorman was what men of his own stamp termed a "deep file."
He saw into futurity--so he thought--a considerable way farther than
most men, and in the future of his own imagination he saw such a
pleasant picture that his amiable spirit was quite cheered by it.  He
saw David Boone making money so fast, that his goods might be insured at
a much larger amount; he saw him getting into fresh difficulties, of
course, because such a business, on such a foundation, could not go on
prosperously except under the most able management, and, even though it
did prosper in spite of improbabilities, he foresaw that there was an
amiable gentleman, much like himself, who would induce Boone to traffic
beyond his means, and when money was wanted, the same kind gentleman (he
saw that quite clearly) would come forward generously with a loan, for
which he would only ask Boone to make over to him in security his two
policies of insurance--fire and life; after which--well, we need not go
on revealing the future as it appeared to Gorman's mental vision;
suffice it to say, that he saw upon the whole a prospect which gave him
great satisfaction.

There were one or two things which he did not see, however, and which
might have modified his feelings considerably if he had seen them.  Of
these we shall say nothing at present.

As for David Boone; his heart rejoiced, for he, too, had visions of the
future which charmed him.  He saw his debt to Gorman paid, and himself
set free from the power of that amiable friend.  He saw a toyshop change
its locality and its aspect.  He saw it transplanted into Regent Street,
with plate-glass windows, in which were displayed objects of marvellous
ingenuity and transcendent beauty.  One window especially exhibiting,
not a crowd, but, a very nation of wax-dolls with blue eyes and golden
hair!  He saw, moreover, a very little old woman, lying in a bed, in an
elegant and comfortable apartment, with a Bible beside her, and a
contented smile on her face.  This old lady resembled his own mother so
strongly, that all other prospects of the future faded from his view,
and in the fulness of his heart and his success, he resolved then and
there to go home and present her with a gift on the strength of the
prosperity at that time attained to.

David was sorely perplexed as to what this gift ought to be.  He thought
of a new silk gown at first; but the remembrance of the fact that his
mother was bedridden banished this idea.  Owing to the same fact, new
boots and gloves were inadmissible; but caps were not--happy thought!
He started off at once, and returned home with a cap so gay, voluminous,
and imposing, that the old lady, unused though she was to mirth, laughed
with amusement, while she cried with joy, at this (not the first)
evidence of her son's affection.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

CHANGES AND MYSTERIES.

Seven years passed away.  During that period London revolved in its
usual course, reproducing its annual number of events--its births,
deaths, and marriages; its plans, plots, and pleasures; its business,
bustle, and bungle; its successes, sentiments, and sensations; its
facts, fancies, and failures--also its fires; which last had increased
steadily, until they reached the imposing number of about twelve hundred
in the year.

But although that time elapsed, and many changes took place, for better
or for worse, in all circles of society, there had not been much change
in the relative positions of the actors in our tale; at least, not much
that was apparent.  Great alterations, however, had taken place in the
physical condition of some of them, as the sequel will show.

One bright morning in the spring-time of the year, a youth with the soft
down of early manhood on his lips and cheeks, paced slowly to and fro
near the margin of the pond in Kensington Gardens.

Being early, the spot was as complete a solitude as the backwoods of
North America, and so thick was the foliage on the noble trees, that no
glimpse of the surrounding city could be obtained in any direction.
Everything that greeted eye and ear was characteristic of "the woods,"
even to the swans, geese, ducks, and other water-fowl which sported on
the clear surface of the pond; while the noise of traffic in the mighty
metropolis was so subdued by distance as to resemble the deep-toned roar
of a great cataract.  A stranger, rambling there for the first time
would have found it difficult to believe that he was surrounded on all
sides by London!

It was one of those soul-stirring mornings in which Nature seems to
smile.  There was just enough of motion in the air to relieve the effect
of what is called a dead calm.  The ripple on the water caught the sun's
rays, and, breaking them up, scattered them about in a shower of
fragmentary diamonds.  Fleecy-white clouds floated in the blue sky,
suggesting dreams of fairy-land, and scents of sprouting herbage filled
the nostrils, reminding one of the fast-approaching summer.

The youth who sauntered alone by the margin of the pond was broad of
shoulder and stout of limb, though not unusually tall--not much above
the middle height.  His gait was easy, free--almost reckless--as though
he cared not a fig for anybody, high or low, rich or poor; yet his eye
was bright and his smile kindly, as though he cared for everybody--high,
low, rich, and poor.  He sauntered with his hands in the pockets of his
short coat, and whistled an operatic air in a low melodious tone.  He
was evidently waiting for someone; and, judging from his impatient
gestures, someone who was resolved to keep him waiting.

Presently, a female figure appeared in the far distance, on the broad
avenue that leads direct from the Serpentine.  She was young and
graceful in form; but she walked with a quick step, with her eyes
looking down, like one who regarded neither youth nor grace.  Curiously
enough, this downcast look gave to her fair face a modest, captivating
grace, which is never seen to sit upon the lofty brow, or to circle
round the elevated nose, of conscious beauty.

The youth at first paid no attention to her (she was not the "someone"
for whom he waited); but as she drew near, he became suddenly
interested, and threw himself in her way.  Just as she was about to
pass, she raised her eyes, started, blushed, and exclaimed:

"Mr Willders!"

"Good morning, Miss Ward!" said the youth, advancing with a smile, and
holding out his hand; "this is indeed an unexpected pleasure; I did not
know that you were addicted to early walking."

"I am indeed fond of early walking," replied Emma, with a smile; "but I
cannot say that it is so much pleasure as duty which brings me here.  I
am a day-governess, and pass this pond every morning on my way to
Kensington, where the family in which I teach resides."

"Indeed," said Willie, with that amount of emphasis which denotes
moderate surprise and solicits information.

He paused for a single moment; but, seeing that Emma did not intend to
speak of her own affairs, he added quickly:

"I am waiting for my brother Frank.  We arranged to meet here this
morning.  I hope that Miss Tippet is well?"

"Quite well," replied Emma, with a blush, as she took a sudden interest
in a large duck, which swam up to the edge of the pond at that moment,
in the hope, no doubt, of obtaining food from her hand.  Its hopes were
disappointed, however, for Emma only called it a beautiful creature; and
then, turning somewhat abruptly to Willie, said, with a slight look of
embarrassment, that she feared she should be late and must bid him
good-morning.

Willie felt a good deal puzzled, and had he been the same Willie that we
introduced at the commencement of our tale, he would have told Emma his
mind candidly, and asked her what was the matter; but Willie was a man
now, so he smiled, lifted his hat politely, and wished her good-morning.

Five minutes later, Frank appeared in the distance and hurried forward.
Seven years had added a little to the breadth of his shoulders, and the
firm self-possession of his step and look; but they had made no other
perceptible impression on him.  There was, indeed, a deep scar on his
right temple; but that was the result of accident, not of time.  Many a
hairbreadth escape had he made during these seven years of fighting with
the flames, and often had his life been in imminent danger; but he was
fortunate in having escaped, hitherto, with only a broken leg and a
variety of small cuts, scalds, and bruises.  The cut on his temple was
the severest, and most recent of these.  He had got it in a fall through
a second floor, which gave way under him as he was attempting to rescue
an old bedridden man, who lay in an inner chamber.  Frank was carried
out in a state of insensibility on the broad shoulders of his friend
Baxmore, while Dale rescued the old man.

"How goes it, Frank?" cried Willie, advancing and giving his brother's
hand a warm shake; "the cut head mending--eh?"

"Oh, it's all right," replied Frank, with a smile, as they sauntered up
and down by the margin of the pond; "the headaches have left me now, I'm
thankful to say, and the-doctor tells me it won't leave much of a mark."

"You don't need to care much if it does, for it's an honourable scar,
and does not spoil your beauty, old boy."

"Well, Willie," said Frank, "here I am at your request.  What have you
got to tell me; nothing serious, I hope?"

The stalwart fireman looked earnestly into his brother's face, and
exhibited more anxiety than there seemed to be any occasion for.

"No, nothing very serious.  It may be serious enough for all I know; but
as far as my knowledge goes it's not bad enough to make you look so
anxious.  Why, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, Willie.  Perhaps my late accident has shaken my nerves a bit."

Willie burst into a loud laugh, and said that it was so awfully absurd
to hear a man like Frank talking of nerves at all that he could not help
it.

"Well, but what _is_ the news you've got to tell me?" resumed Frank.
"You're not going to be married, are you?"

Frank asked this with a look and expression so peculiar that Willie
again laughed and said that really he could not understand him at all;
for even suppose he had been going to be married, that was no reason why
he should take it so much to heart, as the expression on his face
implied he did.

"Perhaps not, Willie," said Frank with a quiet smile; "but _that_ is not
what you want to speak about, then?"

"No, certainly not."

Frank appeared relieved, and Willie, observing the appearance, said--

"Come, now, I really don't see why you should be so very much pleased to
hear that.  I'm young, it is true, but I'm old enough, and I have a good
business, with brilliant prospects, and there appears to me no reason on
earth why I should not marry if I felt so disposed."

"None in the world, Willie," said Frank, with some haste, "but you tell
me you are not thinking of that just now; so pray let's hear what you've
got to say."

"Oh! it's all very well in you, old Blazes, to change the subject in
that way, but I'm nettled at your implied objection to my getting
married if I choose.  However, we won't quarrel over it, so here goes
for the point."

Willie's bantering manner instantly left him.  He walked in silence for
a few seconds, as if he pondered what he had to say.

"There are two points which trouble me just now, Frank, and I want your
opinion in regard to them.  The first is, Miss Tippet.  She is a small
point, no doubt, whether we regard her physically or mentally, but she
is by no means a small point if we regard her socially, for the good
that that little woman does in a quiet, unobtrusive way is almost
incredible.  D'ye know, Frank, I have a sort of triumphant feeling in
regard to the sour, cynical folk of this world--whom it is so impossible
to answer in their fallacious and sophistical arguments--when I reflect
that there is a day coming when the meek and lowly and unknown workers
for the sake of our Lord shall be singled out from the multitude, and
their true place and position assigned them.  Miss Tippet will stand
higher, I believe, in the next world than she does in this.  Well, Miss
Tippet has been much out of sorts of late, mentally; and Mr Tippet, who
is the kindest man alive, has been very anxious about her, and has
begged of me to try to counsel and comfort her.  Now, it is not an easy
matter to comply with this request, because, in the first place, Miss
Tippet does not want me to counsel or comfort her, so far as I know;
and, in the second place, my motives for attempting to do so might be
misunderstood."

"How so?" exclaimed Frank quickly.

"Well, you know, Miss Ward lives with her," said Willie, with a modest
look.

There was again something peculiar about Frank's expression and manner,
as he said, "Well, it would not signify much, I daresay, if people were
to make remarks about you and Miss Ward, for you know it would not be
misconstruction after all."

"What mean you?" asked Willie in surprise.

"You remember what you once said to me about your bosom being on fire,"
pursued Frank.  "I suppose the fire has not been got under yet, has it?"

Willie burst into a loud laugh.

"Why, Blazes, do you not know--?  But, no matter; we came here to talk
of business; after that is done we can diverge to love."

Willie paused here again for a few seconds and then resumed:

"You must know, Frank, that the cause of Miss Tippet's disturbance just
now is the strange conduct of her landlord, David Boone, who has been
going on of late in a way that would justify his friends putting him in
an asylum.  His business affairs are, I fear, in a bad way, and he not
only comes with excessive punctuality for Miss Tippet's rent, but he
asks her for loans of money in a wild incoherent fashion, and favours
her with cautions and warnings of a kind that are utterly
incomprehensible.  Only the other night he came to her and asked if she
did not intend soon to visit some of her friends; and on being informed
that she did not, he went further and advised her to do so, saying that
she was looking very ill, and he feared she would certainly get into bad
health if she did not.  In fact, he even said that he feared she would
die if she did not go to the country for a few weeks.  Now, all this
would be laughable, as being the eccentricity of a half-cracked fellow,
if it were not that he exhibits such a desperate anxiety that his advice
should be followed, and even begged of the poor lady, with tears in his
eyes, to go to visit her friends.  What d'ye think of it, Frank?  I
confess myself utterly nonplussed."

"I don't know what to think," said Frank after a pause.  "Either the man
must be mad, or he wishes to rob Miss Tippet's house in her absence."

Willie admitted that the first supposition might be true, but he held
stoutly that the second was impossible, for Boone was too honest for
that.  They conversed for some time on this point, and both came
ultimately to the conclusion that the thing was incomprehensible and
mysterious, and that it ought to be watched and inquired into.  Willie,
moreover, said he would go and consult his friend Barret about it.

"You know Barret, Frank?"

"No; but I have heard of him."

"Ah, he's a first-rate fellow--in one of the insurance offices--I forget
which.  I came to know him when I first went to Mr Tippet's.  He lived
then in the floor below us with a drunken companion whom he was anxious
to reclaim; but he found him so hard to manage that he at last left him,
and went to live in Hampstead.  He and I became great friends when he
lived under our workshop.  He got married two years ago, and I have not
seen much of him since, but he's a sharp fellow, and knows a good deal
more of the Tippets than I was aware of.  I'll go and see if he can
throw any light on this subject."

"The next point," pursued Willie, "is Cattley the clown.  Have you seen
or heard of him lately?"

Frank said he had not.

"Well, I am greatly troubled about him.  He has become a regular
drunkard, and leads his poor daughter a terrible life.  He is so broken
down with dissipation that he can scarcely procure employment anywhere.
His son is fortunately a pretty decent fellow, though somewhat wild, and
helps in a small way to support his father, having obtained a situation
as clown at one of the minor theatres.  The daughter, Ziza, has long ago
given up the profession, and has been struggling to maintain herself and
her father by painting fire-screens, and making artificial flowers; but
the work is severe and ill paid, and I see quite well that if the poor
girl is not relieved in some way she will not be able to bear up."

"I grieve to hear this, Willie," said Frank, "but how comes it that you
take so great an interest in these people?"

"Frank," said Willie, assuming a tone of deep seriousness, while a glow
suffused his cheeks, "can you keep a secret?"

"I think so, lad; at least I promise to try."

"Well, then," said Willie, "I love Ziza Cattley.  I knew her first as a
fairy, I know her now as a woman who is worthy of a place among the
angels, for none but those who know her well and have seen her fighting
the battle of life can have the least idea of the self-denial, the
perseverance under difficulties, the sweetness of temper, and the
deep-seated love of that devoted girl.  She goes every night, after the
toil of each day, to the door of the theatre, where she waits to conduct
her father safely past the gin-palaces, into which, but for her, he
would infallibly stray, and she spends all she has in making him
comfortable, but I see well enough that this is killing her.  She can't
stand it long, and I won't stand it at all!  I've made up my mind to
that.  Now, Frank, I want your advice."

To say that Frank was hearty in his assurances that he would do what he
could to help his brother, would be a faint way of stating the truth.
Frank shook Willie by the hand and congratulated him on having gained
the affections of one whom he knew to be a good girl, and then condoled
with him on that girl's unfortunate circumstances; but Willie stopped
him short at this point by asking him in a tone of surprise what could
be the matter with him, for at first he had been apparently annoyed at
the notion of his (Willie's) being in love, and now he seemed quite
pleased about it.  In short, his conduct was unaccountable!

Frank laughed, but said eagerly--

"Why.  Willie, did you not tell me long ago that there was a fire in
your bosom, lit up by a certain young friend of Miss Tippet's--"

"Oh," interrupted Willie, "Emma Ward; ah, yes, I confess that I did feel
spooney once in that direction when I was a boy, but the fairy displaced
her long ago.  No, no, Frank, I'm not accountable for boyish fancies.
By the way, I have just parted from the fair Emma.  We had a
_tete-a-tete_ here not half an hour before you arrived."

"Here!" exclaimed Frank in surprise.

"Ay, here," repeated Willie; "she passes this pond every morning, she
told me, on her way to teach a family in Kensington; by the way, I
didn't think of asking whether the father, mother, and servants were
included among her pupils.  Why, Frank, what an absent frame of mind you
are in this morning!  I declare it is not worth a man's while consulting
you about anything."

"I beg pardon," cried Frank quickly, "your words caused my mind to
wander a bit.  Come, what do you think of doing?"

"What do you think I should do? that is the question."

"You can offer to assist them," suggested Frank.  "I've done so," said
the other, "but Ziza won't accept of assistance."

"Could we not manage to get her a situation of some sort with light work
and good pay?"

"Ah! a fireman's, for instance," cried Willie, with a sarcastic laugh;
"did you ever hear of a situation with light work and good pay except
under Government?  _I_ never did; but we might perhaps find _steady_
work and good pay.  It would only be required for a time, because I mean
to--ah, well, no matter--but how and where is it to be got?  Good Mr
Tippet is of no use, because he is mad."

"Mad, Willie!"

"Ay, mad as a March hare.  For years back I have suspected it, but now,
I am sure of it; in fact I feel that I have gradually come to be his
keeper--but more of that anon.  Meanwhile, what is to be done for the
Cattleys?"

"Could nothing be done with Mr Auberly?"

Willie shook his head.

"No, I fear not.  He was in a soft state once--long ago--six or seven
years now, I think--when the dear fairy was ill and he seemed as if he
were going to become a man; but his daughter Loo had just begun to be
ill at that time.  She's been so long ill now that he has got used to
it, and has relapsed again into an oyster."

"He might be reached through Loo yet," said Frank.

"Perhaps," replied Willie, "but I doubt it, for he's a blunt old fellow
in his feelings, however sharp he may be in his business; besides, Loo
is so weak now that very few are allowed to see her except Ziza, and
Miss Tippet, and Emma Ward."

The brothers remained silent after this for some time, for neither of
them could see his way out of their difficulties; at last Frank
suggested that Willie should go home and consult his mother.

"She is wise, Willie, and has never given us bad advice yet."

"I know what her first advice will be," said Willie.

"What?" asked Frank.

"To go and pray about it," answered Willie.

"Well, she might give worse advice than that," said Frank, with much
earnestness.  "In fact, I doubt if she could give better."

"True," assented Willie, "and now, old fellow, I'm off.  Mr Tippet
likes punctuality.  I'll look in at the station in passing if anything
turns up to clear my mind on these matters; meanwhile good-bye."

It is a remarkable fact that Frank Willders took an early walk, as
frequently as possible, in Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after this
conversation with his brother, and it is a still more remarkable fact,
that he always felt like a guilty man on these occasions, as if he were
taking some mean advantage of some one; yet it was certain that he took
advantage of no one, for nobody ever met him there by any chance
whatever!  A fact even more remarkable still was, that never, after that
day, did Emma Ward go to her duties through Kensington Gardens, but
always by the Bayswater Road, although the latter was dusty and
unpicturesque compared with the former; and it is a circumstance worthy
of note, as savouring a little of mystery, that Emma acted as if she too
were a guilty creature during her morning walks, and glanced uneasily
from side to side as she went along, expecting, apparently, that a
policeman or a detective would pounce upon her suddenly and bear her off
to prison.  But, whether guilty or not guilty, it is plain that no
policeman or detective had the heart to do it, for Miss Ward went on her
mission daily without molestation.

It is not easy to say what was the cause of these unaccountable
proceedings.  We might hazard an opinion, but we feel that our duty is
accomplished when we have simply recorded them.  Perhaps love had
something to do with them--perhaps not--who knows?

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WHAT DRINK WILL DO.

Time passed on, as time is wont to do, and Christmas came again.  The
snow was deep in London streets and thick on the roofs and chimneys.  It
curled over the eaves of the houses in heavy white folds ready to fall
and smother the unwary passengers.  It capped the railings everywhere
with little white knobs, and rounded off the corners of things so, that
wherever the eye alighted, the same impressions were invariably conveyed
to it, namely, whiteness and rotundity.  Corinthian capitals were
rendered, if possible, more ornate than ever by snow; equestrian statues
were laden with it so heavily, that the horses appeared to stagger
beneath their trappings and the riders, having white tips to their
noses, white lumps on their heads and shoulders, and white patches on
their cheek-bones and chins, looked ineffably ridiculous, and miserably
cold.  Everything, in fact, was covered and blocked up with snow, and
Londoners felt as if they had muffled drums in their ears.

It was morning.  The sky was clear, the air still, and the smoke of
chimneys perpendicular.  Poulterers' shops were in their holiday attire;
toy-shops were in the ascendant, and all other shops were gayer than
usual.  So were the people who thronged the streets and beat their hands
and stamped their feet--for it was unusually cold.

Street boys were particularly lively, and chaff was flying as thickly as
snow-flakes had fallen the night before.  Even the roughs--who forsook
their dens, and, with shovels and brooms on their shoulders, paraded the
streets, intent on clearing door-steps with or without the leave of