to take up his residence at his father's
house, and give his undivided attention to
his canvassing. It was pointed out to him
that his opponent, Mr. Creswell, was always
on the spot, and, quite unexpectedly, had
recently shown the greatest interest in the
forthcoming struggle, and was availing
himself of every means in his power to
ensure his success; but Tommy Bokenham
refused to "bury himself at Brocksopp,"
as he phrased it, until it was absolutely
necessary. "It is positively cruel," wrote
Mr. Harrington, a clever young clerk, who
had been despatched by his principals,
Messrs. Potter and Fyfe, the great
parliamentary agents, to report how matters
were progressing in the borough, "to see
how Mr. B. is cutting out the running for
the other side! I've had a talk with South,
the attorney, who is acting for us down
here, a shrewd, sensible fellow, and he says
there is every hope of our pulling through,
even as we are, but that if we had only
brought another kind of man to the post,
our success would be a moral." Old Mr.
Potter, a very rigid old gentleman residing
at Clapham, and deacon of a chapel there,
growled very much, both over the matter
and the manner of this communication.

"What does this young man mean," he
asked, peering over the paper at his partner
through his double glasses, "by using this
turf slang? Bring a man to the 'post!'
and a 'moral' indeed!—a word I should not
have expected to find in this gentleman's
vocabulary." But Mr. Fyfe, who had a
sneaking likeness for sport, appeased the
old gentleman, and pointed out that the
letter, though oddly worded, was really full
of good and reliable information, and that
young Harrington had executed his
commission cleverly. Both partners shook their
heads over this further account of their
candidate's shortcomings, and decided that
some immediate steps must be taken to
retrieve their position. The time of election
was imminent; their opponent was resident,
indefatigable, and popular; and though the
report from Harrington spoke of ultimate
success with almost certainty, it would not
do to run the smallest risk in a borough
which they had pledged their credit to
wrest from Tory domination.

Messrs. Potter and Fyfe were not likely
men to ventilate in public any opinions
which they may have held regarding the
business matters on which they were
employed,but the inattention of Mr. Bokenham
to his duties, and the manner in which
he was throwing away his chances began to
be talked of at the Comet office, and the
news of it even penetrated to Jack Byrne's
little club. It was on the day after he had
first heard of it that the old man walked up
to Joyce's chambers, and on entering found
his friend at home, and glad to see him.
After a little desultory conversation, old
Byrne began to talk of the subject with
which he was filled.

"Have you heard anything lately of that
man who was going to contest your old
quarters, or thereabouts, for us, Walter?
What's his name? Bokenham! that's it,"
he said.

"Oh, yes," answered Joyce, "oddly
enough, they were talking of him last night
at the office. I went into O'Connor's room
just as Forrest, who had come down with
some not very clearly defined story from
the Reform, was suggesting a slashing
article with the view of what he called
'rousing to action' this very young man.
O'Connor pooh-poohed the notion and put
Forrest off; but from what he said to me
afterwards, I imagine Mr. Bokenham is
scarcely the man for the emergency— a good
deal too lukewarm and dilettante. They
won't stand that sort of thing in Brocksopp,
and it's a point with our party, and especially
with me, that Brocksopp should be won."

"Especially with you," repeated the old
man; "ay, ay, I mind you saying that
before! That's strong reaction from the old
feeling, Walter!"

"Strong, but not unnatural, I think.
You, to whom I told the story when I first
knew you, will remember what my feelings
were towards— towards that lady. You
will remember how entirely I imagined my
life bound up in hers, my happiness centred
on all she might say or do. You saw what
happened—how she flung me aside at the
very first opportunity, with scant ceremony
and shallow excuses, careless what effect
her treachery might have had upon me."

"It was all for the best, lad, as it turned
out."

"As it turned out, yes! But how did
she know that, when she did it? Had she
known that it would have turned out for
the worst, for the very worst, would she
have stayed her hand and altered her
purpose? Not she."

"I don't like to see you vindictive, boy;
recollect she's a woman, and that once you
were fond of her."

"I am not vindictive, as I take it; and
when I think of her treatment of me, the
recollection that I was fond of her is not
very likely to have a softening effect. See
here, old friend, in cold blood, and with
due deliberation, Marian Ashurst