money in the funds, Mr. Moreen still stuck to
tho old shop.

In the doorway of this old shop stood Mr.
Moreen now, as Arthur and I drove up in the
modest brougham, which, in those days, I hired
for my professional visits. He was respectfully
seeing a great lady out; he flourished his rule
by way of saluting me, and added his usual
respectful bow and smile, but did not speak till
the coroneted carriage, with its high stepping-bays
dashed from the door. "That's the
countess—that is," he said, as we entered.
"She comes here most days, and stays—well!
I suppose she stays an hour or more, choosing,
and changing, and ordering of the carvings
for the old oak sideboard she's a having put
together. It'll be a splendid sideboard when
done. A surprise, too, for his lordship. But,
dear me, she gives herself a deal of trouble more
than she need to! She will have this, and she
won't have that, and she thinks she'd fancy the
other! It would be better left to me—better
left to me. But these great ladies, d'ye see,
they're—they're wilful (with a strong emphasis
on the word); I suppose they've got nothing else
to do."

He winked at me with that clear, honest,
blue eye of his, and laughed with the low, lazy,
internal chuckle common to such large men;
and when I observed that it was not your great
ladies only that were wilful, he laughed still
more. "Ha," he said, "all women teas wilful,
not a doubt about it."

A half-bantering, half-serious conversation
followed, with mutual friendly inquiries as to
health, and so forth; then there was a pause,
and, for the first time, he looked at my
companion. But his glance was momentary, and had
nothing of recognition in it.

"I see you don't remember this young man,"
I said, "yet he is an old acquaintance of yours,
Arthur Bentmore."

"Indeed?"

He turned and surveyed him with an easy
good-natured glance. "Young Bentmore!
Indeed! He have grown precious tall a good
bit taller than my John, and they're about the
same age, I think. But he don't look strong.
I'm afraid you don't have your health, young
man! Let me see," Mr. Moreen put his rule
meditatively to his lips, pursing them up as
though about to whistle. "Didn't I see something
in the papers about young Bentmore, a
year or a year and a half ago? A inquest, or
something? Ah! true! I recollect. Butler,
in your fam'ly (turning to Arthur). True—
true! Yes, I remember. And you give your
evidence very proper. Mrs. M., she read it
all out loud to us at tea; seeing of your
name, and what the coroner said and all. But
I hope," added the upholsterer, suddenly
changing the expression of his good-humoured
face to one of stern severity, and laying a long,
square, powerful forefinger upon Arthur's coat;
"excuse me, young man,  but I hope you don't
bet yourself!  Betting will never come to no
good; be sure of that.

"No! no!" I said, interposing, "Arthur has
come to-day about a little matter of business
with you, Mr. Moreen, if you have leisure to
attend to it."

"With me?"

Again the upholsterer looked at the young
man. This time more attentively; and in one
moment he was a different person himself. It
had been chat; good-humoured friendly chat,
between us hitherto; now it was business.

"I suppose it's the old story," he said, laying
down his rule, and putting his hands in his
pockets, as if to guard what he might possess
there. "The old" story! Wants employment!
But——"

He shook his head. It was a most expressive
shake.

"I am not come to ask for anything," Arthur
Bentmore said, quietly. "You remember the
debt my father owed you, Mr. Moreen?"

"I—should—think—I—did!" the upholsterer
answered, very slowly, laying marked emphasis
on each separate word. "I'm more likely to
remember that debt than I am ever to get a
farthing of it, by a precious deal! Eighty-seven
pounds nine shillings and threepence. That was
the amount. Mrs. M. and I had more words
concerning of that debt than we ever had 'bout
anything; I think she's never forgotten it. Nor
she's never discontinued throwing of it in my
teeth. She were against my lending of it from
the first; and that (turning to me), that give
her a handle, d'ye see, against me. Of course.
She'd no opinion of John Bentmore. Never had."

He had become confidential again. He never
could help it, when he spoke of his wife. And
he always jerked out las sentences, and made
long pauses between, when that dreaded
individual was in question. It was like an occasional
brief letting otf of steam lest the engine should
burst.

Arthur waited patiently, without attempting
to interrupt him.

"Well!" said Mr. Moreen at last, jingling
his silver with both hands; "what of that debt?

You're not——" he burst into a low laugh of
exquisite enjoyment. " You're not—come to—to
pay it? Are ye, young man?"

He turned to me, his blue eyes swimming in
tears of rapture at the extravagance of his own
humour, and laughed till his face grew purple.

"I am come to pay it," Arthur Bentmore
replied, slowly; and, opening the parcel he had
all along held tightly in one hand, spread out
on a buhl table that stood near the fruits of
four years' self-denial.

There was a dead silence.

Not for a twelvemonth—not for a lifetime—
of fees—would I have lost that scene.

Mr. Moreen's laugh had stopped. He stood
silent; vacantly staring at the money.

At last he turned to me.

"Of course, doctor, you lent him this!" he
said gravely, and with frequent pauses, as though
reflecting; "but I couldn't think of it. Cert'ny
not. On no account. I couldn't think of
taking such a thing from you."