The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe from another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article long associated with the British army. The old girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays--an appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad. Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting Gallery.
"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do YOU do, this sunshiny morning?"
Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable.

The old girl is in her usual grey cloak, coarse and much worn but very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment which made its way home to Europe once in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an umbrella. The faithful umbrella is also present, though Mrs. Bagnet never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak and hood. She generally uses the umbrella as a wand to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in the market. Without her market-basket, a sort of wicker well, she never stirs abroad. Attended by these trusty companions, therefore, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting Gallery.
"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do you do, this sunshiny morning?"
Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet sits down.


Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod and smile.
"Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum and myself"--she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy--"just looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, George, and he'll sign it like a man."
"I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper reluctantly.
"Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and came to you instead--as you see! For Lignum, he's tied so close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk. "You don't look yourself."
"I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a little put out, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. Bagnet likewise shakes hands with his old comrade and with Phil,
"Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum and myself" - she often speaks of her husband by this old regimental nickname, Lignum Vitae, after that toughest of timbers - "We've just looked in to make it all correct as usual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, George."
"I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper reluctantly.
"What's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet. "You don't look yourself."
"I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a little put out, Mrs. Bagnet."


Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George!" holding up her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong about that security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of the children!"
The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.
"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up--and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George. There!"

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George! Don't tell me there's anything wrong about that security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of the children!"
The trooper looks at her with a troubled face.
"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis. "If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up - and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as print - you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly. Cruelly, George!"


Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.
"George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed of you! George, I couldn't have believed you would have done it! I always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec and Malta and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or could, have had the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!" Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, "How could you do it?"
Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as if the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. George, who has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and straw bonnet.

Mr. Bagnet puts his large hand on top of his bald head as if to defend it from a shower and looks uneasily at Mrs. Bagnet.
"George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed of you! I always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. Oh, George!" Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes. "How could you do it?"
Mr. George has turned quite white.


"Mat," says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still looking at his wife, "I am sorry you take it so much to heart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have, this morning, received this letter"--which he reads aloud--"but I hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, why, what you say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I never rolled in anybody's way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family better than I like 'em, Mat, and I trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour."
"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, "will you tell him my opinion?"

"Mat," he says in a subdued voice, addressing Mr. Bagnet but still looking at his wife, "I do hope it's not so bad as that. I certainly have, this morning, received this letter" - which he reads aloud - "but I hope it may be set right yet. What you say is true. I am a rolling stone, and I never rolled the least good to anybody. But I trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour."
"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, "will you tell him my opinion?"


"Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and half crying, "Joe Pouch's widder in North America? Then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles."
"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct--why didn't you?"

"Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and half crying, "Joe Pouch's widder in North America? Then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles."
"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct - why didn't you?"


"Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns the trooper. "Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, NOT married to Joe Pouch's widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me. It's not mine; it's yours. Give the word, and I'll sell off every morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum wanted, I'd have sold all long ago. Don't believe that I'll leave you or yours in the lurch, Mat. I'd sell myself first. I only wish," says the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, "that I knew of any one who'd buy such a second-hand piece of old stores."

"Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns the trooper. "Anyhow, here I stand. You see all I have got about me. It's not mine; it's yours. Give the word, and I'll sell off every morsel. If I thought it would have brought in enough, I'd have sold it all long ago. Don't believe that I'll leave you or yours in the lurch, Mat. I'd sell myself first."


"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, "give him another bit of my mind."
"George," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the means."
"And that was like me!" observes the penitent trooper, shaking his head. "Like me, I know."
"Silence! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is correct--in her way of giving my opinions--hear me out!"

"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, "give him another bit of my mind."
"George," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking on this business without the means.


"That was when you never ought to have asked for the security, George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things considered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always an honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power, though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can't admit but what it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. Come! Forget and forgive all round!"
Mrs. Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving her husband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his and holds them while he speaks.

You never ought to have asked for the security, George. But what's done can't be undone. You are an honourable and straightforward fellow, though a little flighty. On the other hand, it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. Come! Forget and forgive all round!"
Mrs. Bagnet gives him one of her honest hands and gives her husband the other.


"I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to discharge this obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape together has gone every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainly enough here, Phil and I. But the gallery don't quite do what was expected of it, and it's not--in short, it's not the mint. It was wrong in me to take it? Well, so it was. But I was in a manner drawn into that step, and I thought it might steady me, and set me up, and you'll try to overlook my having such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very much obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself." With these concluding words, Mr. George gives a shake to each of the hands he holds, and relinquishing them, backs a pace or two in a broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he had made a final confession and were immediately going to be shot with all military honours.

"I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to discharge this obligation," says George. "We have lived plainly enough here, Phil and I. But the gallery don't quite do what was expected of it - in short, it's not the mint. I thought it might steady me, and set me up, and upon my soul, I am very much obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself." Mr. George shakes both their hands, and then backs up a pace or two in a broad-chested attitude, as if he had made a final confession and were immediately going to be shot.


"George, hear me out!" says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. "Old girl, go on!"
Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely to observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay, that it is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr. Smallweed in person, and that the primary object is to save and hold harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. Mr. George, entirely assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with Mr. Bagnet to the enemy's camp.
"Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George," says Mrs. Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. "I trust my old Lignum to you, and I am sure you'll bring him through it."
The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he WILL bring Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with her cloak, basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the rest of her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of mollifying Mr. Smallweed.

"George, hear me out!" says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. "Old girl, go on!"
Mrs. Bagnet observes that the letter must be attended to without any delay; that George and Mr. Bagnet should immediately visit Mr. Smallweed. Mr. George, assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with Mr. Bagnet to the enemy's camp.
"Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George," says Mrs. Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. "I trust my old Lignum to you, and I am sure you'll bring him through it."
The trooper responds that he will. Mrs. Bagnet goes home to her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of mollifying Mr. Smallweed.


Whether there are two people in England less likely to come satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr. George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned. Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad square shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are within the same limits two more simple and unaccustomed children in all the Smallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity through the streets towards the region of Mount Pleasant, Mr. Bagnet, observing his companion to be thoughtful, considers it a friendly part to refer to Mrs. Bagnet's late sally.
"George, you know the old girl--she's as sweet and as mild as milk. But touch her on the children--or myself--and she's off like gunpowder."
"It does her credit, Mat!"
"George," says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, "the old girl--can't do anything--that don't do her credit. More or less. I never say so. Discipline must be maintained."

Whether there are two people in England less likely to come satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than this pair may be questioned. Despite their martial appearance and heavy tread, there are not two simpler children in all the Smallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity through the streets, Mr. Bagnet speaks.
"George, you know the old girl - she's as mild as milk. But touch her on the children or myself - and she's off like gunpowder."
"It does her credit, Mat!"
"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "the old girl - can't do anything - that don't do her credit. Not that I ever say so. Discipline must be maintained."


"She's worth her weight in gold," says the trooper.
"In gold?" says Mr. Bagnet. "I'll tell you what. The old girl's weight--is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight--in any metal--for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl's metal is far more precious--than the preciousest metal. And she's ALL metal!"

"She's worth her weight in gold," says the trooper.
"Far more precious - than that!"


"You are right, Mat!"
"When she took me--and accepted of the ring--she 'listed under me and the children--heart and head, for life. She's that earnest," says Mr. Bagnet, "and true to her colours--that, touch us with a finger--and she turns out--and stands to her arms. If the old girl fires wide--once in a way--at the call of duty--look over it, George. For she's loyal!"
"Why, bless her, Mat," returns the trooper, "I think the higher of her for it!"

"You are right, Mat!"
"She's true to her colours - and stands to her arms. If the old girl fires wide - once in a way - at the call of duty - overlook it, George. For she's loyal!"
"Why, bless her, Mat," returns the trooper, "I think the higher of her for it!"


"You are right!" says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm, though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. "Think as high of the old girl--as the rock of Gibraltar--and still you'll be thinking low--of such merits. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained."
These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant and to Grandfather Smallweed's house. The door is opened by the perennial Judy, who, having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour, but indeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while she consults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may be inferred to give consent from the circumstance of her returning with the words on her honey lips that they can come in if they want to it. Thus privileged, they come in and find Mr. Smallweed with his feet in the drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath and Mrs. Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing.

They arrive at Grandfather Smallweed's house. The door is opened by Judy, who surveys them with a malignant sneer. Once she lets them in, they find Mr. Smallweed in his chair and Mrs. Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing.


"My dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed with those two lean affectionate arms of his stretched forth. "How de do? How de do? Who is our friend, my dear friend?"
"Why this," returns George, not able to be very conciliatory at first, "is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours, you know."
"Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!" The old man looks at him under his hand.

"My dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed with his lean affectionate arms stretched forth. "How de do? Who is our friend, my dear friend?"
"Why this," returns George, "is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours, you know."
"Oh! Mr. Bagnet?


"Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Military air, sir!"
No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet and one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had no power of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.
"Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, "bring the pipe."
"Why, I don't know," Mr. George interposes, "that the young woman need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am not inclined to smoke it to-day."
"Ain't you?" returns the old man. "Judy, bring the pipe."

Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet!"
No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet and one for himself.
"Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, "bring the pipe."
"Why," Mr. George interposes, "I am not inclined to smoke it today.


"The fact is, Mr. Smallweed," proceeds George, "that I find myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks."
"Oh, dear no!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "He never does that!"
"Don't he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it might be HIS doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter."
Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of the letter.

The fact is, Mr. Smallweed, that I find myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks."
"Oh, dear no!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "He never does that!"
"I am glad to hear it, because I thought this letter might be his doing."
Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of the letter.


"What does it mean?" asks Mr. George.
"Judy," says the old man. "Have you got the pipe? Give it to me. Did you say what does it mean, my good friend?"
"Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed," urges the trooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confidentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand and resting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh, "a good lot of money has passed between us, and we are face to face at the present moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there has always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing which I have done regularly and to keep this matter going. I never got a letter like this from you before, and I have been a little put about by it this morning, because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had none of the money--"

"What does it mean?" asks Mr. George. "You know, Mr. Smallweed," speaking as smoothly and confidentially as he can, "a good deal of money has passed between us, and we are both well aware of the understanding there has always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing to keep this matter going. I never got a letter like this from you before, and I have been a little put out by it this morning, because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had none of the money-"


"I DON'T know it, you know," says the old man quietly.
"Why, con-found you--it, I mean--I tell you so, don't I?"
"Oh, yes, you tell me so," returns Grandfather Smallweed. "But I don't know it."
"Well!" says the trooper, swallowing his fire. "I know it."

"I don't know it," says the old man.
"Well!" says the trooper. "I know it."


Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, "Ah! That's quite another thing!" And adds, "But it don't matter. Mr. Bagnet's situation is all one, whether or no."
The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the affair comfortably and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon his own terms.
"That's just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here's Matthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for whereas I'm a harum-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more kicks than halfpence come natural to, why he's a steady family man, don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed," says the trooper, gaining confidence as he proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business, "although you and I are good friends enough in a certain sort of a way, I am well aware that I can't ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely."

"Ah! Mr. Bagnet's situation is all one, whether or no."
The unfortunate George makes a great effort to propitiate Mr. Smallweed.
"As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here's Matthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, that makes his good lady very uneasy, and me too, for he's a steady family man, don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed," says the trooper, gaining confidence, "although you and I are good friends enough in a certain way, I am well aware that I can't ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely."


"Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ASK me anything, Mr. George." (There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather Smallweed to-day.)
"And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps, as your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!"
"Ha ha ha!" echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very hard manner and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet's natural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of that venerable man.

"You can ask me anything, Mr. George." (There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather Smallweed today.)
"And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or perhaps your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!"
"Ha ha ha!" echoes Grandfather Smallweed, in such a very hard manner that Mr. Bagnet's natural gravity is much deepened.


"Come!" says the sanguine George. "I am glad to find we can be pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here's my friend Bagnet, and here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot, if you please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you'll ease my friend Bagnet's mind, and his family's mind, a good deal if you'll just mention to him what our understanding is."
Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, "Oh, good gracious! Oh!" Unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy, who is found to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose chin has received a recent toss, expressive of derision and contempt. Mr. Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound.

"Come!" says the sanguine George. "I want to arrange this pleasantly. We'll settle the matter on the spot, if you please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you'll ease my friend Bagnet's mind if you'll just mention to him what our understanding is."


"But I think you asked me, Mr. George"--old Smallweed, who all this time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now--"I think you asked me, what did the letter mean?"
"Why, yes, I did," returns the trooper in his off-hand way, "but I don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant."
Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper's head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.
"That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll crumble you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil!"
The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet's gravity has now attained its profoundest point.

"But I think you asked me, Mr. George, what did the letter mean?"
"Why, yes, I did."
Mr. Smallweed throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.
"That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll crumble you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil!"
The two friends rise and look at one another.


"Go to the devil!" repeats the old man. "I'll have no more of your pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You're an independent dragoon, too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been there before) and show your independence now, will you? Come, my dear friend, there's a chance for you. Open the street door, Judy; put these blusterers out! Call in help if they don't go. Put 'em out!"

"Go to the devil!" repeats the old man. "I'll have no more of your pipe-smokings and swaggerings. You can go to my lawyer. Judy; put these blusterers out! Call in help if they don't go. Put 'em out!"


He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands on the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which is instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr. George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little parlour window like a sentry and looks in every time he passes, apparently revolving something in his mind.
"Come, Mat," says Mr. George when he has recovered himself, "we must try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?"
Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour, replies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, "If my old girl had been here--I'd have told him!" Having so discharged himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step and marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.
When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr. Tulkinghorn is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at all willing to see them, for when they have waited a full hour, and the clerk, on his bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he brings forth no more encouraging message than that Mr. Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. They do wait, however, with the perseverance of military tactics, and at last the bell rings again and the client in possession comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room.

He shouts this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands on his comrade's shoulders, gets him outside the street door, which is instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr. George stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down like a sentry, apparently revolving something in his mind.
"Come, Mat," says Mr. George, "we must try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?"
Mr. Bagnet replies with one shake of his head, "If my old girl had been here - I'd have told him!" Then he falls into step and marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.
When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr. Tulkinghorn is engaged. He is not at all willing to see them, for when they have waited a full hour, the clerk tells them that Mr. Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. They do wait, however, with military perseverance, and at last the bell rings again and the client comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room.


The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with a fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She is treated with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of his pew to show her through the outer office and to let her out. The old lady is thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in waiting.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?"
The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr. George not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr. Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, "Yes, ma'am. Formerly."

The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with an old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. The clerk steps out of his pew to show her through the outer office. The old lady is thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in waiting.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?"
Mr. George not turning round, Mr. Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, "Yes, ma'am. Formerly."


"I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, at the sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless you, gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once who went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in his bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother. I ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you, gentlemen!"

"I thought so. My heart warms, gentlemen, at the sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless you, gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once who went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in his bold way. I ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you, gentlemen!"


"Same to you, ma'am!" returns Mr. Bagnet with right good will.
There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old lady's voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old figure. But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over the fire-place (calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he does not look round until she has gone away and the door is closed upon her.
"George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from the almanac at last. "Don't be cast down! 'Why, soldiers, why--should we be melancholy, boys?' Cheer up, my hearty!"
The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility, "Let 'em come in then!" they pass into the great room with the painted ceiling and find him standing before the fire.

"Same to you, ma'am!" returns Mr. Bagnet with good will.
There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old lady's voice. But Mr. George is so preoccupied that he does not look round until she has gone away and the door is closed.
"George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers. "Don't be cast down! Cheer up, my hearty!"
The clerk having now again gone in, Mr. Tulkinghorn is heard to say with some irascibility, "Let 'em come in then!" They pass into the great room and find him standing before the fire.


"Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last time I saw you that I don't desire your company here."
Sergeant replies--dashed within the last few minutes as to his usual manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage--that he has received this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it, and has been referred there.
"I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. "If you get into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences. You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I suppose?"
Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.
"Very well! Then the other man--this man, if this is he--must pay it for you."
Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with the money either.

"Now, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last time I saw you that I don't desire your company here."
Sergeant explains about the letter.
"I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. "If you get into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences."
Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.
"Very well! Then the other man must pay it for you."
Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with the money either.


"Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both be sued for it and both suffer. You have had the money and must refund it. You are not to pocket other people's pounds, shillings, and pence and escape scot-free."
The lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. Mr. George hopes he will have the goodness to--"I tell you, sergeant, I have nothing to say to you. I don't like your associates and don't want you here. This matter is not at all in my course of practice and is not in my office. Mr. Smallweed is good enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not in my way. You must go to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn."

"Very well! Then you must pay it between you or both be sued for it."
The lawyer sits down and stirs the fire. Mr. George hopes he will have the goodness to-
"I tell you, sergeant, I have nothing to say to you, and I don't want you here. This matter is not at all in my course of practice. You must go to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn."


"I must make an apology to you, sir," says Mr. George, "for pressing myself upon you with so little encouragement--which is almost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you--but would you let me say a private word to you?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into one of the window recesses. "Now! I have no time to waste." In the midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs a sharp look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own back to the light and to have the other with his face towards it.
"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other party implicated in this unfortunate affair--nominally, only nominally--and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my account. He is a most respectable man with a wife and family, formerly in the Royal Artillery--"
"My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal Artillery establishment--officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses, guns, and ammunition."

"I apologise, sir," says Mr. George, "for pressing myself upon you - but would you let me say a private word to you?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into a window recess. "Now! I have no time to waste."
"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other party, and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my account. He is a most respectable man with a wife and family, formerly in the Royal Artillery-"
"My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the Royal Artillery."


"'Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wife and family being injured on my account. And if I could bring them through this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up without any other consideration what you wanted of me the other day."
"Have you got it here?"
"I have got it here, sir."

"But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his family, sir. If I could bring them through this matter, I should give up what you wanted the other day."
"Have you got it here?"
"I have got it here, sir."


"Sergeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, far more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence, "make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After I have finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won't re-open it. Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days, what you say you have brought here if you choose; you can take it away at once if you choose. In case you choose to leave it here, I can do this for you--I can replace this matter on its old footing, and I can go so far besides as to give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet shall never be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded against to the utmost, that your means shall be exhausted before the creditor looks to his. This is in fact all but freeing him. Have you decided?"
The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long breath, "I must do it, sir."

"Sergeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, "make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After I have finished speaking I have closed the subject. Understand that. You can, for a few days, leave here what you say you have brought. If you do choose to leave it here, I can replace this matter on its old footing, and I can besides give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet shall never be troubled until you have been proceeded against to the utmost, and your own means have been exhausted. Have you decided?"
The trooper answers with a long breath, "I must do it, sir."


So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes the undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to Bagnet, who has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand on his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, and seems exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express his sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer's elbow. "'Tis only a letter of instructions, sir. The last I ever had from him."
Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for some change in its expression, and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr. Tulkinghorn when he opens and reads the letter! He refolds it and lays it in his desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death.
Nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the same frigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, "You can go. Show these men out, there!" Being shown out, they repair to Mr. Bagnet's residence to dine.

So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes the undertaking, which he reads and explains to Bagnet, who has all this time been staring at the ceiling. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded paper, which he lays unwillingly at the lawyer's elbow. "'Tis only a letter of instructions, sir. The last I ever had from him."
Mr. Tulkinghorn opens and reads the letter; refolds it and lays it in his desk with a face as unperturbable as death.
He nods once in the same frigid and discourteous manner. "You can go. Show these men out!" Being shown out, they return to Mr. Bagnet's house to dine.


Boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the former repast of boiled pork and greens, and Mrs. Bagnet serves out the meal in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, being that rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms without a hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is the darkened brow of Mr. George; he is unusually thoughtful and depressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined endearments of Quebec and Malta to restore him, but finding those young ladies sensible that their existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome acquaintance, she winks off the light infantry and leaves him to deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestic hearth.
But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed. During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was at dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation and dismay by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.
Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the invigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls, "Old girl!" and winks monitions to her to find out what's the matter.

As Mrs. Bagnet serves out the boiled beef and greens, she seasons it with the best of temper. But Mr. George is unusually thoughtful and depressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the endearments of Quebec and Malta to restore him, but finding that he is not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome acquaintance, she withdraws them and leaves him to the domestic hearth.
He remains clouded and depressed. During the lengthy cleaning up process, when he and Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he forgets to smoke, filling Mr. Bagnet with dismay.
Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears and sits down to her sewing, Mr. Bagnet growls, "Old girl!" and winks at her to find out what's the matter.


"Why, George!" says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle. "How low you are!"
"Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not."
"He ain't at all like Bluffy, mother!" cries little Malta.
"Because he ain't well, I think, mother," adds Quebec.

"Why, George!" says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle. "How low you are!"
"Am I? Well, I am afraid I am not good company."
"He ain't well, I think, mother," says Quebec.


"Sure that's a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!" returns the trooper, kissing the young damsels. "But it's true," with a sigh, "true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right!"
"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "if I thought you cross enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier's wife--who could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done it almost--said this morning, I don't know what I shouldn't say to you now."
"My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper. "Not a morsel of it."
"Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to say was that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him through it. And you HAVE brought him through it, noble!"

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "I hope you are not cross enough to care about what a shrill old soldier's wife said this morning."
"My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper, "not a bit of it."
"Because truly, George, what I meant to say was that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him through it. And you have brought him through it, noble!"


"Thankee, my dear!" says George. "I am glad of your good opinion."
In giving Mrs. Bagnet's hand, with her work in it, a friendly shake--for she took her seat beside him--the trooper's attention is attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as she plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his stool in the corner, and beckons that fifer to him.
"See there, my boy," says George, very gently smoothing the mother's hair with his hand, "there's a good loving forehead for you! All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by the sun and the weather through following your father about and taking care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree."
Mr. Bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies, the highest approbation and acquiescence.

"Thankee, my dear!" says George. "I am glad of your good opinion."
He looks at her and then at young Woolwich, sitting on his stool in the corner, and beckons him over.
"See there, my boy," says George, "there's a mother's face all bright with love of you. A little touched by the sun and the weather through following your father about and taking care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree."
Mr. Bagnet's expression shows the highest approval.


"The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this hair of your mother's will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. Take care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 'I never whitened a hair of her dear head--I never marked a sorrowful line in her face!' For of all the many things that you can think of when you are a man, you had better have THAT by you, Woolwich!"
Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy beside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about him, that he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit.

"The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when your mother's hair will be grey, and her forehead crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. Take care that you can think in those days, 'I never whitened a hair of her dear head - I never marked a sorrowful line in her face!'"
Mr. George rises from his chair and seats the boy beside his mother, saying, with something of a hurry, that he'll smoke his pipe in the street.


I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my pillow.
I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that I had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast; Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether very notable. When my guardian appeared he said, "Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with the sun upon it.

I had not the courage to see anyone that night, not even myself. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my pillow.
I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and arranged them, and had Charley's lesson before breakfast, and were as busy as possible. When my guardian appeared he said, "Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd about my being like a mountain with the sun upon it.


This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.
"Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought him several letters, and he was writing. "You want money?"
"No, indeed, I have plenty in hand."
"There never was such a Dame Durden," said my guardian, "for making money last."

This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the mountain than before. After breakfast I waited until I saw my guardian in his own room - the room of last night. Then I made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.
"Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian, who was writing.


He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindness this morning."
"There never was," said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me, "such a Dame Durden for making money last."
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was always put at his side--for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him--I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not disturb it at all.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss in anything?"
"Remiss in anything, my dear!"

He laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindness this morning."
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair at his side, I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But his manner did not change at all.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss in anything,


"Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought the answer to your letter, guardian?"
"You have been everything I could desire, my love."
"I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, you said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes."
"Yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my face, smiling.
"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject except once."
"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my dear."
"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."

 since - since I brought the answer to your letter, guardian?"
"You have been everything I could desire, my love."
"I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, you said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes."
"Yes," said my guardian, nodding. He had put his arm about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my face, smiling.
"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject except once."
"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my dear."
"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."


He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same bright goodness in his face.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I know how you have felt all that has happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please."
"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a large exception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?"
"When you please."

He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same bright goodness in his face.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I know how considerate you have been. As so much time has passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again, perhaps I ought to renew the subject. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please."
"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us! When you came in, my mind was full of the same thing. When shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?"
"When you please."


"Next month?"
"Next month, dear guardian."
"The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life--the day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than any other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House its little mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the day when I brought my answer.
A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant's shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he, rather out of breath, "with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.

"Next month?"
"Next month, dear guardian."
"The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life - the day on which I give Bleak House its little mistress - shall be next month then," said my guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the day when I brought my answer.
A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over her shoulder.
"Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he, rather out of breath, "with apologies for intruding, will you allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there in case of us talking about him in his absence? Thank you. Be so good as to chair that there member in this direction, will you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.


This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap, unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.
"Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hat and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger, "you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line is his line principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in bills. That's about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?" said Mr. Bucket, stopping a little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly suspicious of him.
He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap, unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and deposited near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.
"Now, Mr. Jarndyce," he began, with a flourish of his finger, "this gentleman's name is Smallweed. He's what you may call a dealer in bills.


"Now, moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident. "Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't be took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in and out and about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--a relation of this gentleman's that you saw in his lifetime if I don't mistake?"
My guardian replied, "Yes."

I've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in and out and about his premises a good deal. His premises were formerly occupied by Krook - whom you saw in his lifetime if I don't mistake?"
My guardian replied, "Yes."


"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this gentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you, of no use to nobody!"
The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr. Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr. Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face with the closest attention.
"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?" said Mr. Bucket.
"To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp voice.

"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this gentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property there was. Vast lots of waste-paper. Lord bless you, of no use to nobody!"
Mr. Smallweed suspiciously watched his face with the closest attention.
"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman naturally begins to rummage," said Mr. Bucket.
"To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp voice.


"To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man and accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"
"Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.
"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally, "and much to blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, you know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated, "and so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to it. Don't you?"
Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded assent.
"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you see. That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; "what do you find it to be but a will?"
"I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled Mr. Smallweed.

"To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man, you begin to rummage among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"
"Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.
"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally. "And so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to it. Don't you?"
Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded.
"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure - all in good time - what do you find it to be but a will, you see. That's the humour of it," said Mr. Bucket with the lively air of recalling a joke, which Mr. Smallweed did not share; "what do you find it to be but a will?"
"I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled Mr. Smallweed.


Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.
"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of your own."
"Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?" asked Mr. Smallweed with his hand to his ear.
"A very tender mind."
"Ho! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed.
"And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em, and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think--and you never was more correct in your born days--'Ecod, if I don't look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'"

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment as if he were disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the same agreeable air.
"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it. And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know how Krook was for buying all manner of old papers, and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think - and you never was more correct in your born days - 'By heaven, if I don't look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'"


"Now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiously with his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!"
Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon as he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his vicious ejaculations of "Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I've no breath in my body! I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!" Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.

"Mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiously with his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better."
Mr. Bucket picked him up at a dart. As soon as he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his cries of "Oh, my bones!" Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner.


"So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises, you take me into your confidence, don't you?"
I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he admitted this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he could by any possibility have kept him out of it.
"And I go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it; and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that there will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr. Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is, ain't it?"
"That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad grace.
"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agreeable manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, "you've got that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing that remains for you to do is just to out with it!"

"So you take me into your confidence, don't you?"
I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill will than Mr. Smallweed when he admitted this, as if Mr. Bucket was the very last person he would have taken into his confidence if he could have kept him out of it.
"And I go into the business with you very pleasantly; and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get yourself into trouble if you don't come out with that there will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to Mr. Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you're trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is, ain't it?"
"That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad grace.
"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, "the only thing that remains for you to do is just to hand it over!"


Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, Mr. Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not to let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr. Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, "Hadn't settled how to make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain't one of the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady--and she's only out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive a bargain."

The paper was produced with much reluctance and many declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor industrious man and that he hoped he would not lose by his honesty. He very slowly took from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was a little burnt at the edges. Mr. Bucket transferred this paper, with the dexterity of a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce.
As he gave it to my guardian, he whispered, "They hadn't settled how to make money from it. Quarrelled about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. Lord! There ain't one of the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two."


"Mr Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remunerated accordingly."
"Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket in friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of that. According to its value."
"That is what I mean," said my guardian. "You may observe, Mr. Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all other parties interested."
"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear to you that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great relief to YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home again."

"Mr. Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this paper may be, my obligations to you are great; and if it is of any value, I shall see Mr. Smallweed rewarded accordingly."
"Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket in friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of that. According to its value."
"You may observe, Mr. Bucket," said my guardian, "that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain truth is, I have forsworn the whole business, and my soul is sick of it. But I will immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all other parties interested."
"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And now we may chair you home again."


He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning, and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting went his way.
We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly as possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table in his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr. Kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than ever.
"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of Miss Summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," he bowed to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and towards a court which are--shall I say, which take their place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?"
"I am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that Miss Summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my hands."
He did so shortly and distinctly.

He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning, and went his way.
We went our way too, to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly as possible. We found Mr. Kenge in his dusty room. Chairs were placed for us by Mr. Guppy, while Mr. Kenge expressed his surprise and gratification at the unusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his office.
"Mr. Kenge," began my guardian, "before I lay this paper on your desk, let me tell you how it has come into my hands." He did so shortly and plainly.


"It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more plainly and to the purpose if it had been a case at law."
"Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the purpose?" said my guardian.
"Oh, fie!" said Mr. Kenge.
At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper, but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused this?"
"Not I!" returned my guardian.

Mr. Kenge did not at first seem to attach much importance to the paper, but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had opened it and read a little, he became amazed.
"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "you have perused this?"
"Not I!" returned my guardian.


"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's handwriting. It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!"
"Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?"

"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's handwriting. It is duly witnessed. And even if intended to be cancelled, as might be supposed from these marks of fire, it is not cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!"
"Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?"


"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Jarndyce."
"Sir."
"Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Glad to speak with him."
Mr. Guppy disappeared.

"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "Go seek Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Glad to speak with him."
Mr. Guppy disappeared.


"You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that the interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs. Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it."
"Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that the suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"
"Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a very great system, a very great system. Really, really!"

"If you had perused this document, Mr. Jarndyce, you would have seen that it reduces your interest considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand blandly. "You would further have seen that the interests of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Carstone are very materially advanced by it."
"Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the wealth that the suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask me to believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"
"Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! My dear sir, this is a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a very great system, a very great system. Really, really!"


My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestly impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.
"How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take a chair here by me and look over this paper?"
Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. He was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window, and shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people ever did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation that sounded as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-General," "Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs." When they had finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table and spoke aloud.

My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived.
"How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take a chair and look over this paper?"
Mr. Vholes did so. He was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window, and spoke to him at some length. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what he said, for I knew that no two people ever did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed to get the better of Mr. Kenge in a conversation that included the words "Receiver-General," "Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs." When they had finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table and spoke aloud.


"Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.
Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."
"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.
Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."
"And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.
Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an authority.
"And when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which Mr. Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his pimples, "when is next term?"
"Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in the paper."

"Well! But this is a very remarkable and important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.
Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."
"And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause appears next term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.
"And when is next term?" asked my guardian, rising.
"Next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this document; and you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in the paper."


"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."
"Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through the outer office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlarged mind, on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system? Now, really, really!"
He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages.

"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."
"Still bent, my dear sir, on echoing a popular prejudice?" said Mr. Kenge, showing us to the door, "This is a great country, and a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system? Now, really, really!"


Alice, on her return from Westmoreland, went direct to Park Lane, whither Lady Glencora and Mr. Palliser had also returned before her. She was to remain with them in London one entire day, and on the morning after that they were to start for Paris. She found Mr. Palliser in close attendance upon his wife. Not that there was anything in his manner which at all implied that he was keeping watch over her, or that he was more with her, or closer to her than a loving husband might wish to be with a young wife; but the mode of life was very different from that which Alice had seen at Matching Priory!
On her arrival Mr. Palliser himself received her in the hall, and took her up to his wife before she had taken off her travelling hat. "We are so much obliged to you, Miss Vavasor," he said. "I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora."
"Oh, no," she said; "it is I that am under obligation to you for taking me."

Alice, on her return from Westmorland, went direct to Park Lane, where Lady Glencora and Mr. Palliser were. She was to stay with them in London one full day, and on the morning after that they were to start for Paris.
She found Mr. Palliser in close attendance upon his wife. Nothing in his manner implied that he was keeping watch over her; but it was very different from what Alice had seen at Matching Priory!
On her arrival Mr. Palliser received her in the hall, and took her up to his wife.
"We are so much obliged to you, Miss Vavasor," he said. "I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora."
"Oh, no," she said; "it is I that am under an obligation to you for taking me."


He merely smiled, and shook his head, and then took her up-stairs. On the stairs he said one other word to her: "You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins." Alice muttered something,--some little fib of courtesy as to the matter having been forgotten, or never borne in mind; and then they went on to Lady Glencora's room. It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Matching. His descent from an expectant, or more than an expectant, Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a simple, attentive husband, seemed to affect his gait, his voice, and all his demeanour. When he received Alice at the Priory he certainly loomed before her as something great, whereas now his greatness seemed to have fallen from him. We must own that this was hard upon him, seeing that the deed by which he had divested himself of his greatness had been so pure and good!

He merely smiled, and shook his head. On the stairs he said one other thing: "You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins."
Alice muttered some little fib of courtesy as to the matter having been forgotten; and then they went on to Lady Glencora's room. It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Matching. His descent from an expectant Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a simple, attentive husband, seemed to affect his demeanour.


"Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am all in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me." Plantagenet winced a little under this, as the hero of old must have winced when he was found with the distaff. Mr. Palliser had relinquished his sword of state for the distaff which he had assumed, and could take no glory in the change. There was, too, in his wife's voice the slightest hint of mockery, which, slight as it was, he perhaps thought she might have spared. "You have nothing left to pack," continued Glencora, "and I don't know what you can do to amuse yourself."
"I will help you," said Alice.
"But we have so very nearly done. I think we shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up again, or we shall never get through to-morrow. We couldn't start to-morrow;--could we, Plantagenet?"

"Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me." Plantagenet winced a little under this. His wife's voice held the slightest hint of mockery, which he perhaps thought she might have spared.
"I will help you," said Alice.
"But we have very nearly finished. I think we shall have to start again, or we shall have nothing to do tomorrow. We couldn't set off tomorrow, could we, Plantagenet?"


"Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day."
"As if we couldn't find rooms at every inn on the road. Men are so particular. Now in travelling I should like never to order rooms,--never to know where I was going or when I was going, and to carry everything I wanted in a market-basket." Alice, who by this time had followed her friend along the passage to her bedroom, and had seen how widely the packages were spread about, bethought herself that the market-basket should be a large one. "And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won't."
"I don't think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser, who had followed them.

"Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day."
"As if we couldn't find rooms at every inn on the road. Now, in travelling I should like never to book rooms - never to know where I was going. And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won't."
"I don't think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser.


"Don't put the blame on her head," said Lady Glencora. "Women have always pluck for anything. Wouldn't you like to see a live Kurd, Alice?"
"I don't exactly know where they live," said Alice.
"Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the Kurds. You see my joke, don't you, though Plantagenet doesn't? But one knows that they are Eastern, and the East is such a grand idea!"
"I think we'll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion," said Mr. Palliser.

"Wouldn't you like to see a live Kurd, Alice?"
"I don't exactly know where they live," said Alice.
"Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the Kurds. But one knows that they are Eastern, and the East is such a grand idea!"
"I think we'll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion," said Mr. Palliser.


The notion of Lady Glencora packing anything for herself was as good a joke as that other one of the Kurds and whey. But she went flitting about from room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken, and that other, till the market-basket would have become very large indeed. Alice was astonished at the extent of the preparations, and the sort of equipage with which they were about to travel. Lady Glencora was taking her own carriage. "Not that I shall ever use it," she said to Alice, "but he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good;--isn't he?"
"Very good," said Alice. "I know no one better."

Lady Glencora went flitting about from room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken, and that other, till Alice was astonished at the extent of the preparations. Lady Glencora was taking her own carriage.
"Not that I shall ever use it," she said to Alice, "but he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good; isn't he?"
"Very good," said Alice. "I know no one better."


"And so dull!" said Lady Glencora. "But I fancy that all husbands are dull from the nature of their position. If I were a young woman's husband, I shouldn't know what to say to her that wasn't dull."

"And so dull!" said Lady Glencora. "But I fancy that all husbands are dull. If I were a young woman's husband, I shouldn't know what to say to her that wasn't dull."


Two women and two men servants were to be taken. Alice had received permission to bring her own maid--"or a dozen, if you want them," Lady Glencora had said. "Mr. Palliser in his present mood would think nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask him to go among the Kurds, he'd go at once;--or on to Crim Tartary, if you made a point of it." But as both Lady Glencora's servants spoke French, and as her own did not, Alice trusted herself in that respect to her cousin. "You shall have one all to yourself," said Lady Glencora. "I only take two for the same reason that I take the carriage,--just as you let a child go out in her best frock, for a treat, after you've scolded her."

Two women and two men servants were to be taken. Both Lady Glencora's servants spoke French, and as Alice's did not, Lady Glencora said, "You shall have one all to yourself."


When Alice asked why it was supposed that Mr. Palliser was so specially devoted to her, the thing was explained to her. "You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. Oh, Alice!--you were wrong then; I shall always say that. But it's done and gone; and things that are done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And I told him all that you said,--about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days, and when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused Jeffrey."

She then explained Mr. Palliser's kindness to Alice. "You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. And I told him all that you said - about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days, and when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused Jeffrey."


"You didn't?"
"I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he'd let Jeffrey marry you now if you both wished it;--and then, oh dear!--supposing that you had a son and that we adopted it?"
"Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain with you."

"You didn't?"
"I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he'd let Jeffrey marry you now if you both wished it - and then supposing that you had a son and we adopted it?"
"Cora, if you go on in that way I will not stay with you."


"But you must, my dear. You can't escape now. At any rate, you can't when we once get to Paris. Oh dear! you shouldn't grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days. Do you know I got into a way of driving Dandy and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I'm sure the poor beasts thought they were always going to a funeral. Poor Dandy and poor Flirt! I shan't see them now for another year."

"But you must, my dear. You can't escape now. You shouldn't grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days."


On the following morning they breakfasted early, because Mr. Palliser had got into an early habit. He had said that early hours would be good for them. "But he never tells me why," said Lady Glencora. "I think it is pleasant when people are travelling," said Alice. "It isn't that," her cousin answered; "but we are all to be such particularly good children. It's hardly fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner while you and I kept ourselves awake: but we needn't do that another night, to be sure." After breakfast they all three went to work to do nothing. It was ludicrous and almost painful to see Mr. Palliser wandering about and counting the boxes, as though he could do any good by that. At this special crisis of his life he hated his papers and figures and statistics, and could not apply himself to them. He, whose application had been so unremitting, could apply himself now to nothing.

On the following morning they breakfasted early, because Mr. Palliser said that early hours would be good for them. After breakfast they all three went to work to do nothing. It was almost painful to see Mr. Palliser wandering about and counting the boxes, as though he could do any good by that. He, whose application to his figures had been so unremitting, could apply himself now to nothing.


His world had been brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at making a new beginning. I believe that they all three were reading novels before one o'clock. Lady Glencora and Alice had determined that they would not leave the house throughout the day. "Nothing has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the bond that I'm not to go out anywhere. Who knows but what I might be found in Gloucester Square?" There was, however, no absolute necessity that Mr. Palliser should remain with them; and, at about three, he prepared himself for a solitary walk. He would not go down to the House. All interest in the House was over with him for the present. He had the Speaker's leave to absent himself for the season. Nor would he call on anyone.

His world had been brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at making a new beginning.
They were all reading novels before one o'clock. Lady Glencora and Alice had decided that they would not leave the house. There was, however, no need for Mr. Palliser to remain with them; and at about three he prepared for a solitary walk. He would not go down to the House. All interest in the House was over with him for the present. Nor would he call on anyone.


All his friends knew, or believed they knew, that he had left town. His death and burial had been already chronicled, and were he now to reappear, he could reappear only as a ghost. He was being talked of as the departed one;--or rather, such talk on all sides had now come nearly to an end. The poor Duke of St. Bungay still thought of him with regret when more than ordinarily annoyed by some special grievance coming to him from Mr. Finespun; but even the Duke had become almost reconciled to the present order of things. Mr. Palliser knew better than to disturb all this by showing himself again in public; and prepared himself, therefore, to take another walk under the elms in Kensington Gardens.

All his friends believed that he had left town. Therefore Mr. Palliser prepared to take a walk under the elms in Kensington Gardens.


He had his hat on his head in the hall, and was in the act of putting on his gloves, when there came a knock at the front door. The hall-porter was there, a stout, plethoric personage, not given to many words, who was at this moment standing with his master's umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would fain be of some use to somebody, if any such utility were compatible with the purposes of his existence. Now had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage changed, and it was easy to see that he was oppressed by the temporary multiplicity of his duties. "Give me the umbrella, John," said Mr. Palliser. John gave up the umbrella, and opening the door disclosed Burgo Fitzgerald standing upon the door-step. "Is Lady Glencora at home?" asked Burgo, before he had seen the husband. John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the comer ought not to be making a morning call at that house,--as no doubt he did know very well,--and made no instant reply. "I am not sure," said Mr. Palliser, making his way out as he had originally purposed. "The servant will find out for you."

He was in the hall putting on his hat and gloves when there came a knock at the front door. The hall-porter opened the door, and revealed Burgo Fitzgerald standing on the step.
"Is Lady Glencora at home?" asked Burgo, before he had seen the husband.
John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the comer ought not to be there, and made no instant reply.
"I am not sure," said Mr. Palliser, making his way out as he had intended. "The servant will find out for you."


Then he went on his way across Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back his face to see whether Burgo had effected an entrance into the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done. After all, there was something chivalrous about the man.
"Yes; Lady Glencora was at home," said the porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It was no business of his if Mr. Palliser chose to receive such a guest. He had not been desired to say that her ladyship was not at home. Burgo was therefore admitted and shown direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it, she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window of the small room up-stairs that overlooked the Park. She was seated on a footstool with her face between her hands when Burgo was admitted, thinking of him, and of what the world might have been to her had "they left her alone," as she was in the habit of saying to Alice and to herself.

Then he went on his way across Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back to see whether Burgo had entered the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done. After all, there was something chivalrous about the man.
"Yes; Lady Glencora was at home," said the porter. Burgo was therefore admitted and shown direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting.
As chance would have it, she was alone, sitting on a footstool with her face between her hands. She was thinking of Burgo, and of what the world might have been to her had she been allowed to marry him.


She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was rising. "Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me," she said, as the servant left the room; and then she came forward to greet her lover.
"Cora," he said, dashing at once into his subject--hopelessly, but still with a resolve to do as he had said that he would do. "Cora, I have come to you, to ask you to go with me."
"I will not go with you," said she.
"Do not answer me in that way, without a moment's thought. Everything is arranged--"

She rose quickly. "Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me," she said, as the servant left the room; and then she came forward to greet her lover.
"Cora," he said, dashing at once into his subject. "Cora, I have come to ask you to go with me."
"I will not go with you," said she.
"Do not answer me in that way, without a moment's thought. Everything is arranged-"


"Yes, everything is arranged," she said. "Mr. Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr. Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting to-morrow. Wish me God-speed and go, and be generous."
"And is this to be the end of everything?" He was standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched her hand at greeting her. "Give me your hand, Cora," he said.

"Yes, everything is arranged," she said. "Mr. Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr. Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting tomorrow. Wish me God-speed and go, and be generous."
"And is this to be the end of everything? Give me your hand, Cora," he said.


"No;--I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything,--of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you."
"Cora; did you ever love me?"
"Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us."

"No; I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything. Go, when I ask you."
"Cora; did you ever love me?"
"Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us."


"You are as dear to me now,--dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?"

"You are dearer to me than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come separate us like that?"


"Yes, Burgo; we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now." As she spoke the door was opened and Alice entered the room. "Miss Vavasor, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Lady Glencora. "I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me."