he was sure that we should take to each other
at once, as kindred spirits. In a minute more,
I was in the drawing-room. In the midst of the
Dyring family stood a tall bony man, showily
dressed, and with a profusion of coarse black
hair falling over his sallow cheeks, and high
though narrow forehead.

"Colonel Popplewell—Mr. King!" said the
baron, gaily, imitating as nearly as he could the
traditional English method of introduction.
"You will be good friends, my dear sirs, I
venture to predict. But, ah, himmel! what is
the matter?"

For the distinguished Colonel Popplewell,
who had given a very visible start at the sight
of me, and another at the mention of my name,
had reddened, dropped his eyes, lifted them
again, finally turned away, and shuffled out of
the room with all despatch. The baron called
to him, but in vain, and in a minute more we
heard the hall door violently slammed. The
American was gone, and it was plain that I was
the cause of his abrupt exit.

"My word upon it," said Madame Dyring,
"our good Mr. King has met the colonel
before."

I owned that the conjecture was correct, but,
respecting the baron's evident excitement and
agitation, deferred telling all I knew until
positively pressed with questions. At last I spoke as
follows: "I do know this precious Colonel
Popplewell, and, I am sorry to say, I know no
good of him. He was chain-bearer to a surveying
party in Canada, of which I was second
surveyor, and was accounted a clever fellow,
but was discharged for embezzlement. He has
been, to my knowledge, a tavern waiter, steward
of an Ohio steamer, billiard marker, and itinerant
preacher; and no rogue in the United States is
more notorious. I saw him tried for forgery at
Philadelphia, and afterwards he was in the
penitentiary at Sing Sing. His name, when I
first met him, was, not Popplewell, but Caleb
Flish, and——" But at this point Baron
Dyring, whose bronzed face had grown ghastly
pale, gave a groan, dropped into a chair, covered
his face with his hands, and sobbed. His grief
was terrible, for he now bitterly reproached
himself with having encumbered his estate, and
ruined his family, in following the advice of a
specious adventurer. And certainly it turned
out that Flish, or Popplewell—who never
appeared again at Rothesgaard, knowing too well
that the game was up—had led the baron into
disastrous follies.

I found that the Agger fiord had been in a
great measure drained: so far as to leave many
patches of bare mud, and the ruins of a hamlet,
visible. But great expenses had been incurred
in plant and labour; costly engines had been
erected; and the wily adventurer had left his
accounts in hopeless confusion, and very little
cash remained of the sums raised on mortgage.
I need hardly say that no treasure had been
discovered.

Baron Dyring was for giving up the enterprise,
selling half his property to clear off debts,
and cutting down his expenditure to the lowest
pitch. However, I was able, fortunately, to
point out another course. If the Rothesgaard
estate were swamped with mortgages, the Agger
fiord was half drained, and it would have been
a thousand pities to allow the sea to resume
possession. By putting matters in a right and
economical train, I managed to drain off as
much water as added a dozen fat meadows to
the property, with little extra cost. The dams
were repaired, the pumping engines were used
more sparingly, and the work was slowly but
cheaply done. At the baron's request, I gave
up my situation at Copenhagen, and went to
reside at Rothesgaard.

In ten years, at little expense compared
with the lavishness of the first outlay, we
reclaimed the whole bed of the Agger fiord from
the sea, turning the salt lagoon into marsh, and
the marsh into good pasture and arable. In
fifteen years, thanks to the increase of national
and local prosperity, we were able to clear the
Rothesgaard estates of mortgages. But before
three years, I had become the husband of
Christina Dyring, with the full consent of her
family. Our house is on the Rothesgaard
estate, and I farm a large amount of the rescued
acres, under Christina's brother, Baron Eskil,
as I did formerly in the lifetime of my old
friend and father-in-law, who lived long enough
to see the happy change, and to own that
though the traditional treasure was still
unfound, the recovered lands of the Agger fiord
had been a treasure in themselves. This, I
suspect, is what the rhyming author of the
distich meant, after all.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfleld," &c.
In MAY will be published, PART I., price 1s., of
A NEW WORK BY CHARLES DICKENS
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.