"Now, observe," he began. "Here am I, a
needy object. Very good. Without complicating
the question by asking how I come to be
in that condition, I will merely inquire whether
it is, or is not, the duty of a Christian community
to help the needy. If you say, No, you simply
shock me; and there is an end of it. If you say,
Yes—then I beg to ask, Why am I to blame for
making a Christian community do its duty?
You may say, Is a careful man who has saved
money, bound to spend it again on a careless
stranger who has saved none? Why, of course
he is! And on what ground, pray? Good
Heavens! on the ground that he has got the
money, to be sure. All the world over, the man
who has not got the thing, obtains it, on one
pretence or another, of the man who has—and in
nine cases out of ten, the pretence is a false one.
What! your pockets are full, and my pockets
are empty; and you refuse to help me? Sordid
wretch! do you think I will allow you to violate
the sacred obligations of charity in my person?
I won't allow you—I say distinctly, I won't allow
you. Those are my principles as a moral
agriculturist. Principles which admit of trickery?
Certainly. Am I to blame if the field of human
sympathy can't be cultivated in any other
way? Consult my brother agriculturists in the
mere farming line—do they get their crops for
the asking? No! they must circumvent arid
Nature, exactly as I circumvent sordid Man.
They must plough, and sow, and top-dress,
and bottom-dress, and deep-drain, and surface-
drain, and all the rest of it. Why am I to be
checked in the vast occupation of deep-draining
mankind? Why am I to be persecuted for
habitually exciting the noblest feelings of our
common nature? Infamous!—I can characterise
it by no other word—infamous! If I hadn't
confidence in the future, I should despair of
humanity—but I have confidence in the future.
Yes! one of these days (when I am dead and
gone), as ideas enlarge and enlightenment
progresses, the abstract merits of the profession now
called swindling, will be recognised. When that
day comes, don't drag me out of my grave and
give me a public funeral; don't take advantage
of my having no voice to raise in my own
defence, and insult me by a national statue. No!
do me justice on my tombstone; dash me off, in
one masterly sentence, on my epitaph. Here
lies Wragge, Embalmed in the tardy recognition
of his species: he ploughed, sowed, and reaped
his fellow-creatures; and enlightened posterity
congratulates him on the uniform excellence of
his crops."

He stopped; not from want of confidence, not
from want of words—purely from want of breath.
"I put it frankly, with a dash of humour," he
said, pleasantly. "I don't shock you—do I?"
Weary and heartsick as she was—suspicious of
others, doubtful of herself—the extravagant
impudence of Captain Wragge's defence of swindling,
touched Magdalen's natural sense of humour,
and forced a smile to her lips. "Is the
Yorkshire crop a particularly rich one, just at
present?" she inquired, meeting him, in her neatly
feminine way, with his own weapons.

"A hit—a palpable hit," said the captain,
jocosely exhibiting the tails of his threadbare
shooting-jacket, as a practical commentary on
Magdalen's remark. "My dear girl, here or
elsewhere, the crop never fails—but one man
can't always gather it in. The assistance of
intelligent co-operation is, I regret to say, denied me.
I have nothing in common with the clumsy rank
and file of my profession, who convict themselves
before recorders and magistrates, of the worst of
all offences—incurable stupidity in the exercise
of their own vocation. Such as you see me, I
stand entirely alone. After years of successful
self-dependence, the penalties of celebrity are
beginning to attach to me. On my way from
the North, I pause at this interesting city for
the third time; I consult my Books for the
customary references to past local experience; I
find under the heading, 'Personal position in
York,' the initials, T. W. K., signifying Too Well
Known. I refer to my Index, and turn to the
surrounding neighbourhood. The same brief
remarks meet my eye. 'Leeds. T. W. K.—
Scarborough. T. W. K.—Harrowgate. T. W. K.
—and so on. What is the inevitable
consequence? I suspend my proceedings; my
resources evaporate; and my fair relative finds me
at a crisis in my career."

"Your books?" said Magdalen. "What books
do you mean?"

"You shall see," replied the captain. "Trust
me, or not, as you like—I trust you implicitly.
You shall see."

With those words he retired into the back
room. While he was gone, Magdalen stole
another look at Mrs. Wragge. Was she still self-
isolated from her husband's deluge of words?
Perfectly self-isolated. She had advanced the
imaginary omelette to the last stage of culinary
progress; and she was now rehearsing the final
operation of turning it over—with the palm of
her hand to represent the dish, and the cookery-
book to impersonate the frying-pan. "I've got
it," said Mrs. Wragge, nodding across the room
at Magdalen. "First put the frying-pan on the
dish, and then tumble both of them over."

Captain Wragge returned, carrying a neat
black despatch-box, adorned with a bright brass
lock. He produced from the box five or six
plump little books, bound in commercial calf and
vellum, and each fitted comfortably with its own
little lock.

"Mind!" said the moral agriculturist: "I
take no credit to myself for this: it is my nature
to be orderly, and orderly I am. I must have
everything down in black and white, or I should
go mad! Here is my commercial library:—Day
Book, Ledger, Book of Districts, Book of
Letters, Book of Remarks, and so on. Kindly throw
your eye over any one of them. I flatter myself
there is no such thing as a blot or a careless
entry in it from the first page to the last. Look