with a good intention whenever I failed to do it
accidentally. When it was quite dark, I left the
Aged preparing the fire for toast; and I inferred
from the number of teacups, as well as from his
glances at the two little doors in the wall, that
Miss Skiffins was expected.

CHAPTER XLVI.

EIGHT o'clock had struck before I got into the
air that was scented, not disagreeably, by the
chips and shavings of the long-shore
boatbuilders, and mast oar and block makers. All
that waterside  region of the upper and lower
Pool below Bridge, was unknown ground to me,
and when I struck down by the river, I found
that the spot I wanted was not where I had
supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to
find. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks's
Basin; and I had no other guide to Chinks's
Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope Walk.

It matters not what stranded ships repairing
in dry docks I lost myself among, what old
hulls of ships in course of being knocked to
pieces, what ooze and slime and other dregs of
tide, what yards of shipbuilders and
shipbreakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into
the ground though for years off duty, what
mountainous country of accumulated casks
and timber, and how many ropewalks that were not
the Old Green Copper. After several times
falling short of my destination and as often
overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner,
upon Mill Pond Bank. It was a fresh kind of
place, all circumstances considered, where the
wind from the river had room to turn itself
round; and there were two or three trees in it,
and there was the stump of a ruined windmill,
and there was the Old Green Copper Rope
Walk —whose long and narrow vista I could
trace in the moonlight, along a series of
wooden frames set in the ground, that looked
like superannuated haymaking-rakes which had
grown old and lost most of their teeth,

Selecting from the few queer houses upon
Mill Pond Bank, a house with a wooden front
and three stories of bow window (not bay
windows, which is another thing), I looked at
the plate upon the door, and read there, Mrs.
Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I
knocked, and an elderly woman of a pleasant
and thriving appearance responded. She was
immediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who
silently led me into the parlour and shut the
door. It was an odd sensation to see his very
familiar face established quite at home in that
very unfamiliar room and region; and I found
myself looking at him, much as I looked at the
corner cupboard with the glass and china, the
shells upon the chimney-piece, and the coloured
engravings on the wall, representing the death
of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty
King George Third in a state-coachman's wig,
leather-breeches, and top-boots, on the terrace at
Windsor.

"All is well, Handel," said Herbert, " and he
is quite satisfied, though eager to see you. My
dear girl is with her father; and if you'll wait
till she comes down, I'll make you known to
her, and then we'll go upstairs.—  That's her father!"

I had become aware of an alarming growling
overhead, and had probably expressed the fact
in my countenance.

"I am afraid he is a sad old rascal," said
Herbert, smiling, "but I have never seen him.
Don't you smell rum? He is always at it."

"At rum?" said I.

"Yes," returned Herbert, "and you may
suppose how mild it makes his gout. He
persists, too, in  keeping all the provisions upstairs
in his room, and serving them out. He keeps
them on shelves over his head, and will weigh
them all. His room must be like a chandler's
shop."

While he thus spoke, the growling noise
became a prolonged roar, and then died away.

"What else can be the consequence," said
Herbert, in explanation, " if he will cut the
cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand
—and everywhere else —can't expect to get
through a Double Gloucester without hurting
himself."

He seemed to have hurt himself very much,
for he gave another furious roar.

"To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite
a godsend to Mrs. Whimple," said Herbert,
"for of course people in general won't stand
that noise. A curious place, Handel; isn't it?"

It was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably
well kept and clean.

"Mrs. Whimple," said Herbert, when I told
him so, " is the best of housewives, and I really
do not know what my Clara would do without
her motherly help. For, Clara has no mother
of her own, Handel, and no relation in the world
but old Gruffandgrim."

"Surely that's not his name, Herbert?"

"No, no," said Herbert, "that's my name
for him. His name is Mr. Barley. But what
a blessing it is for the son of my father and
mother to love a girl who has no relations, and
who can never bother herself, or anybody else,
about her family!"

Herbert had told me on former occasions, and
now reminded me, that he first knew Miss Clara
Barley when she was completing her education
at an establishment at Hammersmith, and
that on her being recalled home to nurse
her father, he and she had confided their
affection to the motherly Mrs. Whimple, by
whom it had been fostered and regulated with
equal kindness and discretion, ever since. It
was understood that nothing of a tender nature
could be confided to Old Barley, by reason of
his being totally unequal to the consideration
of any subject more psychological than Gout,
Rum, and Purser's stores.

As we were thus conversing in a low tone
while Old Barley's sustained growl vibrated in
the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door
opened, and a very pretty slight dark-eyed girl of
twenty or so, came in with a basket in her hand:
whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the basket,
and presented blushing, as " Clara." She really