removed, as probably they had, to be turned into
money. A mattress and some bedding were on
the floor at one end of the room. The table, and
a couple of old chairs, were the only articles of
furniture I could see. The engraver's lamp was
on the table, and the materials for a very poor
meal which the two had evidently just been
cooking—a very little scrap of bacon and some
boiled rice. The birdcage was hanging in the
window, if I had wanted any confirmation of my
conviction that I had found my shadows at
last.

Of course, all these things were taken in by
me at a single glance, it being necessary that I
should at once account for my visit and that of
my friend. I had begun to do so in a few hurried
words, when my attention was suddenly arrested
by an exclamation from Mr. Pycroft, who had
followed me. The second occupant of the room,
whom we had at first seen but imperfectly, had
now risen to his feet, and stood with the light
full upon him, straining his eyes into the shade
where my companion stood behind me. I turned
hastily round, and met the stern gaze of my old
friend.

"If this is a trick, Mr. Broadhead," he said,
speaking very thick, and with choking utterance,
"I can tell you that it does you little credit."

"What do you mean?" I asked, in utter
bewilderment.

"I mean that if this has all been a planned
thing to bring about a reconciliation between
me and my son—-"

"Your son?" I gasped.

"I can only say," continued Mr. Pycroft,
"that it shall meet with the success it
deserves."

He turned as he spoke and made for the door,
but I was beforehand with him.

"Stay, Mr. Pycroft!" I cried. "If you
choose to retain this feeling of animosity, which
so ill becomes you, you must, but you shall not
go away with a false impression of this matter
as far as I am concerned in it. I swear to you
that your suspicions of me are false, that when
we came to this room I had no more idea of who
were its occupants than you had, and that I
never knew your son was living in this abject
misery; though, if I had, I would certainly
have done my best to rouse you to a feeling of
what, under such circumstances, you owe to one
who bears your name."

Mr. Pycroft had glanced once searchingly
towards me when I denied his imputation of
having been concerned in a plot to trick him
into a reconciliation, and now his eyes were
directed towards the place where his son stood
before him.

He was a fine manly-looking fellow, and as he
stood there holding his wife's hand in his, and
with the refining influence of recent illness
showing on his worn but handsome face, I could
not help feeling that surely this picture must
complete the work which the shadows had so
well begun.

"Look at them!" I said—"look at this
room—look at that meal! Can you see such
wretchedness and not be moved? If your son
has displeased you, has he not suffered? If he
has disobeyed, he has paid the penalty."

I looked in my companion's face, and I
thought that I saw some shadow of compunction
working there.

"Do not," I said, "let the sympathy which
you bestowed upon the shadows be wanting for
the realities which cast them."

The little wife at this moment left her
husband's side, and, advancing to where we stood,
laid her hand timidly on that of my old friend.
I looked at him once more, and then, beckoning
the poor engraver to his father's side, I passed
quietly from the room, where I felt that my
presence was no longer needed.

About an hour afterwards I was sitting
disconsolately in my room, reflecting on the loneliness
of my own position, and rather envying
my opposite neighbours, when I heard my own
name shouted in a cheery voice from without.

I looked in the old direction, and saw my
friend Mr. Pycroft standing at his son's open
window.

"We want you to come over," said the old
gentleman, "and spend what is left of the evening
with us."

I assented gladly, and was just drawing in
my head, when I heard myself called once more
by name.

"And I say," said Mr. Pycroft, in a stage
whisper, " as we are rather short of liquor here,
perhaps you wouldn't mind bringing a bottle of
brandy in your pocket; and if you happen to
have such a thing as a lemon—"

In a few minutes I was sitting one of a
comfortable party in the room opposite.

"Do you know what is one of the first things
we intend to do now," said the little wife,
smiling as she looked at me.

"I have not the least idea," was my answer.

"Why, we are going to nail up the thickest
curtain we can get, in order to prevent our opposite
neighbour from seeing what we are about
whenever our lamp happens to be alight."

"You need not be afraid," I said; "and you
may save yourself the trouble of putting up the
curtain, for the opposite neighbour hopes henceforth
to see so much of his new friends in their
Substance, that he is not likely to trouble
himself much more about—their Shadows."

III.
PICKING UP TERRIBLE COMPANY.

WHILE the artist was still engaged in telling
his story, another visitor had come in at the gate,
and had politely remained in the background, so
as not to interrupt the proceedings. When the story
was over, he came forward, and presented himself
(in excellent English) as a Frenchman on a visit
to this country. In the course of an eventful
life, opportunities had occurred to him of learning
our language, on the Continent, and necessity
had obliged him to turn them to good
account. Many years had passed, since that time,