sojourn at Sydenham or Norwood; and ended
by requesting that the hostile maid-servant
might fetch a cab for tbe conveyance of his
treasures. He then took his leave, with the
intimation that he would come again in the
course of a few days, and go over the pictures
a second time.

The door had no sooner closed behind him,
than Miss Rivière flew up to her mother's
bedroom, with the bank-notes fluttering in her
hand.

"Oh, mamma! mamma!" she cried, flinging
herself on her knees beside the invalid's easy-
chair, and bursting into sobs of joy, " he has
taken four of papa's paintings, and given—- oh!
what do you suppose?——given two hundred
pounds for them! Two hundred pounds, all in
beautiful, real bank-notes—- and here they are!
Touch them—- look at them! Two hundred
pounds—- enough to take you to Italy, my
darling, six times over!"

CHAPTER LI. BRADSHAW'S GUIDE FOR MARCH.

WILLIAM TREFALDEN sat alone in his private
room, in a somewhat moody attitude, with his
elbows on his desk, and his face buried in his
hands. A folded deed lay unread before him.
To his right stood a compact pile of letters
with their seals yet unbroken. Absorbed in
profound thought, he had not yet begun the
business of the day, although more than an hour
had elapsed since his arrival in Chancery-lane.

His meditations were interrupted by a tap at
the door; and the tap was instantaneously
followed by Mr. Keckwitch. The lawyer started
angrily from his reverie.

"Why the deuce do you come in like that?"
he exclaimed. " What do you want?"

"Beg your pardon, sir," replied the head
clerk, with a rapid glance at the pile of unopened
letters, and the unread deed. "Messenger's
waitin' for Willis and Barlow's bond; and you
said I was to read it over to you before it went
out."

Mr. Trefalden sighed impatiently, leaned back
in his chair, and bade his clerk " go on;"
whereat the respectable man drew the back of
his hand across his mouth, and began.

"Know all men by these presents that we,
Thomas Willis of number fourteen Charlcote-
square in the parish of Hoxton in the County
of Middlesex and John Barlow of Oakley villa
in the parish of Brompton in the county of
Middlesex Esquire, are jointly and severally
holden and firmly bounden unto Ebenezer Foster,
and Robert Crompton of Cornhill in the parish
of St. Peters upon Cornhill in the County of
Middlesex Bankers and copartners in the sum
of five thousand pounds of lawful British money
to be paid to the said Ebenezer Foster and
Robert Crompton their executors administrators
and assigns or their lawful attorney and
attornies for which payment to be well and faithfully
made we bind ourselves jointly and severally
and our and any two or one of our heirs executors
and administrators firmly by these presents
sealed with our respective seals. Dated . . . .
which I have left blank, sir, not knowing when
the signatures will be made."

"Quite right," said Mr. Trefalden, dreamily.
"Go on."

The head clerk then proceeded in the same
thick, monotonous tone, wading on from stage
to stage, from condition to condition, till he
came at length to—- "Then and in such case the
above written bond or obligation shall become
void and of no effect, or else shall remain in full
force, power, and virtue;" having read which,
he came to a dead pause.

And then again, for the third time, Mr.
Trefalden said:

"Go on."

Mr. Keckwitch smiled maliciously.

"That's the end of the deed, sir," he replied.

"The end of the deed?"

"Yes, sir. It struck me that you didn't hear
much of it. Shall I go through it, again?"

Mr. Trefalden bit his lip with unconcealed
annoyance.

"Certainly not," he said, sharply. "That
voice of yours sends me to sleep. Leave the
bond with me, and I will glance over it
myself."

So saying, he snatched the paper from the
hand of his clerk, pointed to the door, and
compelled himself to go through the document from
beginning to end.

This done, and the messenger despatched, he
dropped again into his accustomed seat, and
proceeded mechanically to examine his diurnal
correspondence. But only mechanically; for
though he began with the top letter, holding it
open with his left hand, and shading his eyes
with his right, there was that in his thoughts
which blotted out the sense of the words as
completely as if the page were blank before
him.

By-and-by, after staring at it vacantly for
some ten minutes or more, William Trefalden
crushed the letter in his hand, flung it on the
table, and, exclaiming half aloud, " Fool that I
am!" pushed his chair hastily back, and began
walking up and down the room.

Sometimes fast, sometimes slowly, sometimes
stopping short in his beat for a minute at a
time, the lawyer continued for the best part of an
hour to pace to and fro between the window
and the door, thinking earnestly.

Of what? Of a woman.

He could scarcely bring himself to confess it
to his own thoughts; and yet so it was—- a fact
not to be evaded, impossible to be ignored.
William Trefalden was in love for the first time
in his life; utterly, passionately in love.

Yes, for the first time. He was thirty-eight
years of age, and he had never in his life known
what it was to feel as he felt now. He had
never known what it was to live under the
despotism of a single idea. He was not a good
man. He was an unscrupulous and radically
selfish man. A man of cultivated taste, cold
heart, and iron will. A man who set his own
gratification before him as the end for which he