The light flows round them with a happy tune,
While the uniting charm is made complete
With hands thrice waved towards the setting moon,
And the buds ope to give us flowers sweet.

HUNTED DOWN.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

IN TWO PORTIONS. PORTION THE SECOND.

IV.

FOR six or seven months, I saw no more of
Mr. Slinkton. He called once at my house, but
I was not at home; and he once asked me to
dine with him in the Temple, but I was engaged.
His friend's Assurance was effected in March.
Late in September or early in October, I was
down at Scarborough for a breath of sea air,
where I met him on the beach. It was a hot
evening; he came towards me with his hat in
his hand; and there was the walk I had felt so
strongly disinclined to take, in perfect order
again, exactly in front of the bridge of my nose.

He was not alone; he had a young lady on
his arm. She was dressed in mourning, and I
looked at her with great interest. She had the
appearance of being extremely delicate, and her
face was remarkably pale and melancholy; but
she was very pretty. He introduced her, as his
niece, Miss Niner.

"Are you strolling, Mr. Sampson? Is it
possible you can be idle?"

It was possible, and I was strolling.

"Shall we stroll together?"

"With pleasure."

The young lady walked between us, and we
walked on the cool sea sand in the direction of
Filey.

"There have been wheels here," said Mr.
Slinkton. "And now I look again, the wheels
of a hand-carriage! Margaret, my love, your
shadow, without doubt!"

"Miss Niner' s shadow?" I repeated, looking
down at it on the sand.

"Not that one," Mr. Slinkton returned,
laughing. "Margaret, my dear, tell Mr. Sampson."

"Indeed," said the young lady, turning to
me, "there is nothing to tell—except that I
constantly see the same invalid old gentleman,
at all times, wherever I go. I have mentioned
it to my uncle, and he calls the gentleman my
shadow."

"Does he live in Scarborough?" I asked.

"He is staying here."

"Do you live in Scarborough?'*

"No, I am staying here. My uncle has
placed me with a family here, for my health."

"And your shadow?" said I, smiling.

"My shadow," she answered, smiling too,
"is—like myself—not very robust, I fear; for,
I lose my shadow sometimes, as my shadow
loses me at other times. We both seem liable
to confinement to the house. I have not seen
my shadow for days and days; but it does oddly
happen, occasionally, that wherever I go, for
many days together, this gentleman goes. We
have come together in the most unfrequented;
nooks on this shore."

"Is this he?" said I, pointing before us.

The wheels had swept down to the water's
edge, and described a great loop on the sand in
turning. Bringing the loop back towards us,
and spinning it out as it came, was a hand-
carriage drawn by a man.

"Yes," said Miss Niner, "this really is my
shadow, uncle!"

As the carriage approached us and we
approached the carriage, I saw within it an old
man, whose head was sunk on his breast, and
who was enveloped in a variety of wrappers.
He was drawn by a very quiet but very keen-
looking man, with iron-grey hair, who was
slightly lame. They had passed us, when the
carriage stopped, and the old gentleman within,
putting out his arm, called to me by my name.
I went back, and was absent from Mr. Slinkton
and his niece for about five minutes.

When I rejoined them, Mr. Slinkton was the
first to speak. Indeed, he said to me in a raised
voice before I came up with him: "It is well
you have not been longer, or my niece might
have died of curiosity to know who her shadow
is, Mr. Sampson."

"An old East India Director," said I. "An
intimate friend of our friend's at whose house I
first had the pleasure of meeting you. A certain
Major Banks. You have heard of him?"

"Never."

"Very rich, Miss Niner; but very old, and
very crippled. An amiable man—sensible—much
interested in you. He has just been expatiating
on the affection that he has observed to exist
between you and your uncle."

Mr. Slinkton was holding his hat again, and
he passed his hand up the straight walk, as if he
himself went up it serenely, after me.

"Mr. Sampson," he said, tenderly pressing
his niece's arm in his, "our affection was always
a strong one, for we have had but few near ties.
We have still fewer now. We have associations
to bring us together, that are not of this world,
Margaret."

"Dear uncle!" murmured the young lady,
and turned her face aside to hide her tears.

"My niece and I have such remembrances
and regrets in common, Mr. Sampson," he
feelingly pursued, "that it would be strange indeed
if the relations between us were cold or
indifferent. If you remember a conversation you
and I once had together, you will understand the
reference I make. Cheer up, dear Margaret,
Don't droop, don't droop. My Margaret! I
cannot bear to see you droop!"

The poor young lady was very much affected,
but controlled herself. His feelings, too, were
very acute. In a word, he found himself under
such great need of a restorative, that he
presently went away, to take a bath of sea water;
leaving the young lady and me sitting on a
point of rock, and probably presuming—but,
that, you will say, was a pardonable indulgence
in a luxury—that she would praise him with all
her heart.