to be desired. The plan was delightfully clear
and simple. Mrs. Mountjack was a milliner,
who did work, " bodies," &c., in an economical
way for Mrs. Honest John. There was
nothing very important in that, and my face fell.
Mrs. Mountjack had a sister (there was
scarcely much more in that), and this sister was
engaged as costumière at the theatre. Ah!
there was much in that, and my face rose.
Cousin John was indeed honest!— a brave
deliverer— a noble creature! When was it to be?
That very day if I liked.

We saw Mrs. Mountjack. She was not very
busy. She could spare us an hour. She could
come now— to be sure. Margaret Mountjack was
down at the theatre. We took a cab, the three
of us.

My heart beat tremendously. Those were
terrible moments of commingled joy and anxiety.
I was all in a tremble and a flutter, for I was
now, in all human probability, to see my
princess. She was to be there— was sure to
be there— temporarily on a visit from diviner
regions— was Mrs. Ricks. Who was she? Mrs.
Ricks was the fairy queen. What! not known
by some female spiritual name, common to the
angelic choirs? No! Simply Mrs. Ricks, wife
of Ricks. What! married? And why not? And
yet, someway, it seemed to me ludicrous and
absurd and dismal. Ricks was a pantaloon
at one of the minor theatres over the bridge. It
surely should not have been so ordained.

At a dingy lane we were set down, and entered
at a dingy door in the dingy lane. The sense of
awe and general flutter I experienced at this
moment, is beyond description. How would she
appear? Glorified, and in her habitual medium
of ambrosial pink light; or in a sort of celestial
undress? I trembled, for these were awful
questions.

We went through many dark passages, Mrs.
Mountjack leading. The flavour of these places
was unpleasant, verging on the charnel-house
flavour. But what of that! We went up little
short flights of steps of three or four stairs each;
we went round sharp corners, got glimpses into
what seemed a huge cellar lighted from chinks in
the wall, and finally arrived at a rather cheerful
room where there was a fire, and where, too, there
were several women busy " cutting out" and
sewing gaudy materials, and where the air seemed
charged with remnants. The leading cutter-out
was a Mountjaec. With her, the other Mountjack
— our Mountjack— communed a few moments
mysteriously. They looked over at me. She then
went out— the other Mountjack— and we were
invited to admire the articles of apparel in hand.
A stream of decayed persons in ill health
evidently from the tone of their cheeks, and as
evidently not privileged to live in the rich and
fattening ambrosial air of the theatre, came in
and out. A sallow man, with white-lead cheeks,
a tightly-buttoned coat, and a walking-cane
sticking out of his under-coat pocket; a fat
man, but of the same tinge; a tall lean man;
a short stout man, all more or less funny in their
remarks, but all with the same curious marks of
relationship about them; women, too, sickly
unwholesome creatures, dressed rather like
decayed housemaids, one with a large umbrella,
another in an old striped shawl, with a basket on
her arm, and leading a very cold child with a bit
of boa round its neck for a comforter. She was
as yellow as a guinea, and looked as if she had
lately been ill.

"Mind ye have the new 'body' for me
tonight," she said. " Mr. Perkeboys says so.
Bless ye, what a hurry I'm in! Good-by, Mrs.
Mountjack."

"Wait, do," said our Mountjack. "She's
gone to look for you."

"I can't stay," said the woman; and dragged
away the cold child with her.

We waited a few seconds more, and admired
some spangles to fill up the time. (How different
they, from the real molten gold, all in a state
of liquefaction, that streamed out in all directions
at night!) Then came back the other Mountjack
in great haste.

"I can't find her nowheres— I can't find Mrs.
Ricks."

"Bless you, she was here," says her sister.
"Come and gone!"

"Oh, was she! Then that's all right. You
saw her, then?"

"Who?" says Honest John. "Why, was that
her?"

"Her with the child. Yes," says both the
Mountjacks.

"Bless my soul," cries Honest John Plusher,
"what a world it is! So that was the Fairy
Queen!"

I could not believe it. I refused to believe it.
I laughed scornfully.

But I came to believe it afterwards, and I have
believed it ever since, and I believe it now. It
was a cruel crushing blow. O Harlequin Fairy
Morgana, I have found a greater changer than
you, many and many a time since that day!

In Number 280, for September the 3rd, will be commenced
                 A New Serial Romance, entitled
                         NEVER FORGOTTEN
             BY THE AUTHOR OF "BELLA DONNA."

               NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original editions of
                 "Pickwick," "Copperfield," &c.
         Now publishing, PART IV., price 1s., of
                     OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
                     BY CHARLES DICKENS.
               IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
          With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
     London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

Just published, bound in green cloth, price 5s. 6d.,
                  THE ELEVENTH VOLUME.