the wife and tail of children. You will? I see
it in your face."

The dean hesitated. He was a kind-hearted
man, and thought with pity of the luckless
Norbury and his family. But then there was the
truculent Topham, and, worse again, Mrs.
Ridley.

"Well," he said, at last, "as you say, there
can be no harm in waiting. We must find some
way to reconcile both duties. In the words of
Holy—I mean of our Shakespeare—' The quality
of mercy droppeth like the gentle dew upon the
ground.' And so, we will not issue immediate
execution against this man, for his wife and
children's sake. But you must pray for his
speedy reformation, Miss Ada. Yes, you must,
indeed."

"God bless you, dean," said the colonel,
warmly. "You've a good heart."

In this way was a respite obtained for the
Norbury family. What jubilee there was
in the small house of the Norburys when this
joyful news was brought to them by the
golden-haired girl, may be well conceived.
Among the children of all ages who fully
comprehended what had occurred, it produced
a sort of tumult, and wild cries and joyous
sounds of all kinds filled the air. The face of
Mr. Norbury, who was even now without his
coat, was suffused with a silent gratitude, and
the pale face of his wife was laid close to his as
she whispered: "O, Joe, won't you—won't you
take care in future, for all our sakes?"

Mr. Tilney, too, was seriously delighted, for
he had been in genuine trouble for his friend.
He had gone about mournfully the whole day in
lonely places, saying to himself: "Awful!
awful! What on earth is to become of them?
My! my! my! so it's come to this. What a
world!" And in very great distress he
wandered about most of the day. When he heard of
the reprieve, he was, strange to say, affected with
more gloom instead of joy, a feeling which was
inflamed by the behaviour of Mrs. Tilney, who
improved the occasion as if it were a text, saying,
"There! Every one but us! It's long before
we'd get through a difficulty of that sort. You're
ready enough to help any one else, but not where
we're concerned," &c.

But the next morning, just after their breakfast,
a letter was brought in to Mr. Tilney.

"I declare, yes," he said, joyfully. " The seal
of the bank, / know it. 'Pon my word, yes.
It's from. Smiles."

"Open it, open it," said she, impatiently.

"O, uncle," said the soft voice, and her
hands were clasped together, " I am so afraid."

Mr. Tilney read it to himself with staring
eyes, and allowed it to be twitched from him
without a protest. It ran:

"Bank, 10 o'clock.
"Sir. The two persons sent by you, as they
acknowledge, to try and 'bully' an officer of
this society, to try and impudently extort money
from him, with threats and intimidation, left me
without succeeding in their purpose. I am not
to be intimidated, as perhaps you know already.
But I have felt it my duty to proceed at once to
town, to lay the matter before the board, who
have it now under consideration whether such
outrageous behaviour shall be tolerated from one
occupying any position in their establishment.
"I am, sir, yours,
"JOHN SMILES."

"Heaven protect us!" said poor Mr. Tilney,
quite aghast. "What will come next? One
thing after another."

On his unhappy head Mrs. Tilney spent all
the vials of her vexation. It was, indeed, only
too favourable an opportunity. What was to
become of them all, she would like to know,
unless to go out into the streets with her
daughters? They were a wretched, miserable
family, while "you who should be working for
us, like every other man, who isn't ashamed to
sit with his hands before him, go about
talking absurd platitudes! I knew you'd bring
all this on us."

The unhappy Mr. Tilney bore all these attacks
without a murmur. When the torrent had spent
itself, and Mrs. Tilney had "flounced" out of the
room, he strode a few paces about dismally
enough, looked out of the window, made a
faint attempt at whistling, and sank down
dismally into a chair. "From one thing to another,
one to another," he said. "Well, I suppose an
end will come one of these days."

A soft voice was at his ear, a soft breath was
on his cheek. The soft voice whispered
comfort. "Cheer up, dearest uncle," it said; "all
will be well yet. Think of those poor
Norburys, how they kept up." And yet this was
really practical comfort, and there was truth in
this. "He is only angry," she went on, "and
does not mean anything serious. You have so
many friends, too—"

A light came into his face. "Good child,"
he said, "you have wonderful sense—wonderful;
and I declare I admire you, for the way
you managed the dean yesterday. I couldn't
have done it. I declare to Heaven I couldn't,
though I know enough of the ways of courts
and palaces. I know what you mean, Ada.
Dear friends, after all, are the mammon of
iniquity. My poor head is so confused in these
times, I don't know how to think of anything.
To be sure, Tillotson will not let him touch
us."

"Mr. Tillotson," she repeated. "O no, I
did not think of him."

"To be sure, this low bookkeeper of a fellow,
to talk to a gentleman born as if he were one
of his clerks! A man of my time of life to be
brought to his facings by a common creature of
this sort! My God, to look to the time when
it was 'Tilney, give me your arm'—and a Royal
Dock's arm—when my tailor or clerk would run
and prostrate themselves before us in the dust.
I vow to Heaven, yes; and to think what I am
come to now. Yes, dear," he added, with
sudden alacrity, "I see the whole plan. You
shall write a line to your friend Tillotson. You