conversation, morning, noon, and night. Indeed,
it was yet as fresh as ever, when, one morning,
the post brought a piece of news that fairly
surpassed the house-warming—a nomination to the
Blue-coat School, in favour of no less a personage
than Master Albert Bland. The commotion
in that cottage——Well! It's a blessed thing to
want something, for then you can duly appreciate
the favour of having it. And it is a blessed
thing to be rich, and liberal withal, for then
you can bestow the favour so appreciated. Meantime,
Mr. Blorage divided his time pretty equally
between his little office at the Bank, Dr. Evans's,
the house belonging to the father of Florence,
and the abode within which dwelt the lovely
Fanny's aunt. And all these visits, combined
with the still existing effects of his dream, ended
in consequences.

The first consequence occurred to the self-
satisfied William. His slow brother Dick
acquired the ridiculous habit of demanding
what Bill did with those sums of money he was
for ever borrowing? And—unkindest thing
of all—Mr. Richard insinuated, nay, he more
than insinuated, he plainly told—Mr. William
Blorage that he expected such sums to be
repaid in future. And to show that this was no
idle threat, he produced a ledger, wherein a
debtor and creditor account was drawn up
between Mr. Richard Blorage and Mr. William
Blorage: which account displayed a state of
account so alarming to Mr. William, that he
reformed rather. Imagine Mr. Dick's pleasure
when William, Billy, or Bill, applied in sober
seriousness for that post of junior of all the
junior clerks, whilom so despised by him!

Second important consequence. Mr. Richard
Blorage committed a piece of extravagance. He
caused to be executed for himself, a statuette
in white marble. Any orderers of statues, or
other things to be made after a fashion of their
own, may calculate what an enormous sum Mr.
Blorage paid for his statue. It must be
ethereal-looking (he said), it must have extended
wings, it must be lightly poised on one foot; but
above all, it must have a slightly turned-up nose,
and a little lace handkerchief tied under the chin!

           *          *          *          *          *

These consequences came to pass ten years
ago. On the night of the thirty-first of December,
one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two,
let us take a peep into Mr. Blorage's house. Let
us take a peep at Mr. Blorage in his dining-
room. Dinner is over, wine and dessert are
on table. The Chair is at the upper end of
the room; above the chair, is a lovely statuette
on a carved oaken bracket.

Dick is reading the paper; so, at the same
time, is some one else. Dick holds the paper in
his right hand; his left hand clasps a little tiny
hand of the said some one else: while the
matcher to that small hand of the same some
one else turns the leaves of the paper, so that
Dick feels he has no want of another hand. If
the owner of the small hand gets to the bottom
of the page first—which she invariably does,
being a woman—she lays her head confidingly on
Dick's shoulder, and seems very well content to
let it stay there as long as Dick chooses.

But, hark! There is a noise overhead; a
baize door closes with a muffled sound; there
is a pattering of little feet, and there is a joyful
chorus of little voices. Dick puts down the
paper; his companion, flying to the door, opens
it; in rush half a dozen small rosy boys and
girls. (Most of these little children have noses
of a slightly astronomical turn.)

Mamma prepares their dessert. There is a
chair wanting at the table. In default of the
missing chair, mamma wheels forward the Chair,
and sits down in it.

"Papa, papa! Mamma is in the Chair of
Truth," cries a child.

Clearly Mr. Blorage must have told his dream
in the family circle.

"Then let us question her," says papa.
"Mamma, are you happy?"

"Happy, as angels are said to be."

"Do you love us?"

"As (under God) my chief good, my life."

"Have you ever repented marrying Dick
Blorage?"

This time the question is only answered by
the surcharged eyes; expressive and loving eyes
are often more ready to overflow from perfect
happiness, than from distress or pain.

HIS WONDERFUL END.

IT will have been, 'ere now, perceived that I
sold the foregoing writings. From the fact of
their being printed in these pages, the inference
will, 'ere now, have been drawn by the reader
(may I add the gentle reader?) that I sold them
to One who never yet.*

* The remainder of this complimentary sentence
editorially struck out.

Having parted with the writings on most
satisfactory terms—for in opening negotiations
with the present Journal, was I not placing
myself in the hands of One of whom it may be
said, in the words of Another†—I resumed my
usual functions. But I too soon discovered
that peace of mind had fled from a brow which,
up to that time, Time had merely took the hair
off, leaving an unruffled expanse within.

† The remainder of this complimentary parenthesis
editorially struck out.

It were superfluous to veil it,—the brow to
which I allude, is my own.

Yes, over that brow, uneasiness gathered like
the sable wing of the fabled bird, as—as no
doubt will be easily identified by all right-minded
individuals. If not, I am unable, on the spur of the
moment, to enter into particulars of him. The
reflection that the writings must now inevitably
get into print, and that He might yet live and
meet with them, sat like the Hag of Night upon
my jaded form. The elasticity of my spirits
departed. Fruitless was the Bottle, whether Wine
or Medicine. I had recourse to both, and the
effect of both upon my system was witheringly
lowering.