moment. I know that you're right, sir, and
that if things don't come as you say, it's the
things' fault, and not yours. I know that you
can read the stars, and make out what they're
up to with a mere cock of the telescope here.
I know that you can do what you like with
them, and that when Venus is breaking into the
bloody house of Mars, or Jupiter is up to some
dreadfulness in his second chamber, that you
can come forward and get Orion to tackle them
with his belt, or Saturn to enclose them with
his ring, or some other lady or gentleman to
interfere and make things all square again.
Oh yes, sir, I'm aware of all this, and how you
forewarned me when Pisces was dead against
me, and how the fish-bone stuck in my throat
that very day, and I was near to choking. I've
seen the very stars wink as you've looked at
them, sir; and the ivinly bodies come out from
behind a cloud when you've been in wants of
them. And I've seen you overcome by evil
influences, too; and I remember the day when
Mercury was one too many for you, and you
said you was sure he'd play you a trick, and,
sure enough, that very evening the telescope
fell down with a crash and broke every bit of
glass in its body. Oh yes, sir, I've known all
these wonderful things, and have had experience
of 'em, and yet at times the unbelieving fit will
come upon me strong and make a beast of me
in spite of all the advantages I have had. But,
sir, it ain't my fault, I do assure you, and if
ever such a thing should happen again — which,
if possible, it shan't — I do entreat and hope,
with all my heart, that you'll believe that
Saturn —under whom I was a-littered — is at fault,
and that it is all his doings, sir, and none of
mine."

This extraordinary profession of faith and
jargon of second-hand astrology seemed to
appease our philosopher to some extent, and
master and man were both settling down again
to their respective occupations, when a knock
came at the door, and Mr. Julius Lethwaite
entered the sanctum.

"Ah, Mr. Lethwaite, glad to see you, sir,"
said the astrologer. "I've been looking into
your affairs up there," and he pointed to the
skylight, "and I don't like the look of them
still. But how are you, sir? You don't look
quite the thing."

"Oh yes, I'm all right enough: a little
weighed down, as usual, by a sense of the
corruptness of human nature; but I'm used to
that. And so you still don't like the look of
my prospects?"

"No, sir, I don't," replied the sage. " It's
no use my saying I do if I don't, is it?"

"Not a bit," said the other, carelessly.
"And you can't hold out any better prospect
for the future?" he continued.

"Not for the present, sir," was the reply.
"But we must hold on, sir, and be hopeful.
You've got some good friends up there," and
he again pointed towards the skylight, "as well
as some fierce enemies, and so I say we must
hope."

Mr. Lethwaite was silent for a time, and sat
staring in an absent manner at the adept, as if
he had really hardly noticed before what a
remarkable individual this was with whom he had
come in contact. It was a warm night rather,
and the little room was made especially hot by
the stove at which old Smagg was cooking his
herbs. Cornelius had taken off his coat — his
flesh alone kept him warm enough, he said—
and was puffing and blowing over his studies,
red-hot with the exertion, and with his jolly
face suffused with perspiration. Every now
and then he threw his huge form back in his
chair with a gasp, making the fabric creak
again as if it must give way. At such times,
too, he would take the opportunity of mopping
his brow with his handkerchief, and would
emerge from behind it, looking happier, and
smiling more radiantly than ever.

"And this is the man," thought our cynic to
himself, "who consumes the midnight oil in
study. This is the 'pale student' who wears
himself out in profound speculations concerning
the unseen world; who would fain pry into
futurity and extort their secrets from those
mysterious planets which whirl above our heads.
It is inconceivable."

Lethwaite sat staring at the adept in speechless
astonishment for some time, and then, when
next the philosopher leant back in his chair to
take breath, said abruptly:

"You make some good guesses, Vampi,
sometimes."

"Ah, Mr. Lethwaite, the old phrase again—
guesses."

"Yes; and, curiously enough, they've turned
out right in my case. I've come to grief."

"What do you mean?" asked the philosopher,
laying down his papers, and pushing his
spectacles up upon his forehead.

"I mean what I say," replied Lethwaite.
And with that he proceeded to lay before the
astrologer some of the circumstances relating
to the present embarrassment of his affairs, and
the future difficulties in which he was likely to
be involved, with which the reader is already
acquainted.

It was impossible to ignore the fact that as
this recital went on an expression of something
very like triumph became developed upon the
countenance of our corpulent astrologer. Now
and then he would even direct a glance towards
old Smagg, who was still at work at the stove,
which glance said, as plainly as eyes can speak,
"I hope you hear this, and observe its bearing
on what we were talking of just now." No
doubt — for our philosopher was a good fellow
at heart — no doubt he was sorry for the misfortunes
which threatened his friend, but still, what
a thing to have his predictions come true;
what a thing to have them borne out by facts!

Mr. Lethwaite did not fail to observe the
condition of self-complacency into which the great
man had fallen. Here was a case of motive for
him. "He is actually glad of my misfortunes,"
he said to himself, "because through them his
prophesies are verified."