self-interest, as to be guilty of the extreme folly
of turning out a rogue.

When the evil news was at length brought
completely home to him, one of the very first
things he had said was this:

"My poor old Jonathan, what will become of
you?"

We have seen how lightly this blow fell upon
Julius Lethwaite. Perhaps he did not perfectly
realise it. Perhaps his very incapacity for business
did him service here. He had vague ideas that it
would "all come right." He had heard of so
many instances of people "under a cloud," as it
was called, for a time, and then emerging again
not so much the worse for that temporary
overshadowing. He had known men obliged to give
up their establishments, and live very quietly for
a time, and till they could tide over certain
business embarrassments, who had still kept on,
and managed to emerge at last, right side uppermost.
But the old clerk shook his head. They
would keep things quiet, and go on as long as
they could. The head clerk was a very superior
man, and those two would work and do all they
could, but still he had little hope. It did not
matter for him so much; if things came to the
worst he had saved a little money, and he
could most likely get other employment. But
with Mr. Julius it was different. He had been
used to luxury, had never known what it was
to do without anything that he wanted. What
was he to do?

And when our cynical friend was alone he did
for a moment think of these things, but, as has
been said, hardly understanding them. He had
a vague idea that he ought to do something.
He looked round his room, and thought that
he must certainly, at any rate, reduce his
expenditure. He saw all the luxurious things
that surrounded him, and summed up what they
were worth; the pictures, the plate, the china,
and knick-knacks. He called to mind the enormous
rent that he was paying, and determined
that that must be reduced at once, and that he
must make a move to less fashionable quarters.
He even sat down at once and wrote a letter
giving warning to his landlord, and he felt as if
he were quite doing business, and perhaps even
was not without some sense of enjoyment.

Then he got up and took a spell at the drums
again, and finding that he got on better, began
to reflect upon what his friend Scroop had told
him of the earnings to be made out of that
instrument. Finally, he reflected that since the
predictions of Mr. Vampi had been in this
particular case so wonderfully verified, he could not
do better than go and tell him about it.

Cornelius Vampi sat in his observatory deeply
engaged in study. It was evening, and he had
had a busy day of it. To judge by appearances,
his labours had been of a mixed character,
partly medical and partly astrological. For
besides the papers which lay before him, and
with which he was now engaged — besides the
books and the globe, all evidently recently in
use, there was a small fire alight in the chemist's
stove, and various vessels used in the concoction
of medicine stood about, some full, some
empty, some heated, some allowed to get cold,
while in a great earthen jar close at hand were
quantities of herbs, still damp and smoking,
from which all the virtue had been extracted,
and which were waiting Mr. Smaggsdale's
leisure to be thrown away. Other members of
the same family were placed in convenient
positions ready for use.

Mr. Smaggsdale was certainly not at leisure
just now. Surrounded by pots and pans and
earthenware pipkins, he was engaged, under his
master's direction, in watching the different
preparations as they simmered and bubbled through
different stages, ready, when the "moment of
projection" arrived, to proclaim the fact, in order
that the adept himself might take advantage of
the important crisis when his drugs should be
in the fittest state for combination with each
other. So "old Smagg" had to keep constantly
on the look-out, prying and peering into the
different vessels one after another, now lifting a
cover with caution, now tilting a lid so as to
modify the heat of the liquid which it covered,
removing this compound into a cooler place, and
that to a warmer, adding a little distilled water
here, and a pinch of herbs there, and stirring
with a wooden spoon everywhere.

His master had evidently deputed all this
inferior kind of labour to "old Smagg," with
perfect confidence in his will and ability to
discharge it. The philosopher himself kept to his
papers, occupied with such mental exercise as
he could trust nobody but himself to engage in.
He had had a busy day of it, as has been said,
and besides his ordinary work in the shop, had
had visits respectively from an old lady, who
believed, as did Vampi himself, in an elixir of
youth — at which, indeed, Mr. Smaggsdale was
then at work — and also from a young lady, who
had brought back her horoscope in disgust, and
not liking her destiny, had requested to have it
altered. The astrologer had replied, with some
show of reason, that he did not profess to
construct destinies to order, but only to transmit
to those who sought his services, the revelations
which he was able to read in the heavenly
bodies. On hearing this, the young lady had
cast, as it were, her destiny from her, and falling
back upon incredulity, had torn her written
fate to pieces before the astrologer's eyes, saying
that the young man bestowed upon her by
the document was not "her sort," and finally
expressing her belief that our philosopher was
little better than an impostor.

The infamous accusation seemed to glance off
our great man without harming him. Nay, he
could even afford to treat the calumny with
ridicule.

"An impostor, Smagg," he said, smiling
benignantly, as he addressed himself to his
colleague. "That's what the wench called me.
We must remember that, Smagg."

Mr. Smaggsdale had newly come from an
interview with his wife, in the course of which
the good lady, hearing from her husband of the