And he lingers and rejoins them,
With a secret all his own,
With all courtesy salutes them—
Pleading, makes his wishes known.

They with kindly feeling meet him.
Voice and looks their trust bespeak,
Yet at his admiring glances
Steal faint blushes to her cheek.

And in twilight shadows sitting,
In his scantly furnish'd room,
Lo! appears a lovely vision
Suddenly from out the gloom.

'Tis the old man and the maiden
He had seen that very day;
And a low voice seems to whisper,
Love her son! and trust alway!

Day by day beholds them gather'd
In his attic—all the three,
Age and manhood, and fair youth, the
Painter, Love—the pupil, he.

Day by day, upon the canvas,
See her growing image smile;
Day by day, upon his heart too,
For he lov'd her all the while.

Learns the pencilling of her eyebrows,
Long fringed lashes, dimpled chin,
Learns the changes of her features,
Hides them each his heart within.

Noiseless Time brings round the morning,
When, in neat though plain array,
The father, painter, and the daughter,
To the pictures take their way.

Fitly fram'd, and softly lighted,
On the walls the pictures glow,
Gay crowds whisper blame or praises
As they wander to and fro.

They the lively throng of gazers
Thread to find his work—behold!
From the broad and gilded border
Hangs the little ticket, "Sold."

The modest painter smiles and trembles,
Feels a moisture dim his eye;
"Who," he asks, "has been the buyer?"
And they show him, passing by.

Noble-hearted Count Pourtalès
Greets him frankly, cordially;
"Name the price you set upon it,
It must be mine, whate'er that be."

"Two thousand francs," the young man falters.
"Francs ten thousand let it be."
"I said but two." "But I for prizes
Never bargain," answers he.

"Some day soon you will be famous,
Mark my words;" a smile, a bow,
Pointing a prophetic finger
Where the crowds are gathered now.

Need we tell the old old story,
Ever old, yet ever new?
How they spent a joyful evening,
How he won the maiden too.

How they tended the old father
With all kindness that could be,
How in time their blooming children,
Prattled round the grandsire's knee.

HOW THE BANK WAS WOUND UP.

No sooner was our bank fairly pronounced
defunct,* than the lawyers and accountants
began to hold high festival over its body. Truly
says the homely proverb, "What is one man's
meat is another one's poison." What was utter
ruin to many—a very serious loss to all the
shareholders—was to the legal profession in the
City a rich harvest. The gentleman appointed
by the Court of Chancery to wind us up was an
accountant; but he, of course, had his friends, in
the shape of an eminent legal City firm, and—
equally as a matter of course—he brought them
in to help him as solicitors for finishing off the
affairs of the bank. In these little transactions
there is generally an understanding that "share
and share alike" is to be the rule as to all "costs"
which the lawyers can get out of the concern; so
that what between his fees as official liquidator,
and half the law charges that are earned by the
solicitors, the accountant always hopes to make
a nice little thing out of the job, and he is
seldom doomed to be disappointed. No wonder
that these windings-up are much sought after,
or that when a joint-stock company is in trouble
there are not wanting those who prompt the
shareholders to resort to the Court of Chancery.
The individual who gets named official liquidator
may, in consequence, write himself down a richer
man by at least two thousand pounds, and the
legal firm that helps him will certainly be better
off by more than half that amount before the
work is over.

* See How the Bank came to Grief, vol. xiii.,
page 102.

Who that has travelled in the East has not
often seen high up in the air numerous
vultures, or other birds of prey, hovering round
and round in slow circles—moving on the
wing, but never going far from the same spot—
as if waiting for something which they know
must happen ere long? When he sees this the
traveller at once knows that somewhere in the
near neighbourhood there is a sheep, goat,
mule, horse, or other animal dying, and that
the vultures are only biding their time until
the creature be really dead to pounce down
upon the carcase, and feed and quarrel over all
of it that is worth eating. Times without
number have I witnessed such a scene in other
lands, and also in the city of London, our own
dear overgrown Babylon. Only here the soon-
to-be-defunct body was always a joint-stock
company on its last legs, and the birds of prey
hovering over it were the solicitors and
accountants, waiting to feed upon its dead body.
As with the vultures so with the legal
advisers. It is the very fighting, which they join
and promote amongst themselves, that causes
the delay of final settlement, but that very delay