so little inclined to part with it, that, though
he had passed, and noticed in passing, the
tailor's shop to which he had been
recommended by the porter, he still walked on.
It was not until he had made a circuit of
the old churchyard at the end of the town,
where even on summer days the wind is
generally at play, and where on winter nights it
ramps and rages in a manner terrible to hear
and feel, that George Dallas began to comprehend
the necessity of at once procuring some
warmer clothing, and, turning back, made
straight for the tailor's shop.

A neat, clean–looking shop, with "Evans,
Tailor," painted over the window, the effect
being slightly spoiled by the knob of the roller
blind, which formed a kind of full stop in the
middle of the word "Tail . or," and divided it
into two unequal portions; with "Evans,
Tailor," blazing from its brass door-plate; with
"Evans, Tailor," inscribed with many twisted
flourishes on its wire blind, where it emerged
coyly from "Liveries" preceding it and took
hasty refuge in "Uniforms" at its conclusion.
Evans himself behind the counter, a fat,
chubby, rosy little man, with clustering iron–
grey hair round his temples, and a bit of round
scalp wig fitting, like the lid of a teapot, into a
bald place on his crown. Apparently he had
been all his life tailoring to such an extent for
other people as to have had no time to attend
to himself, for he stood behind the counter this
winter's night in his shirt-sleeves, and without
his coat.

The old man bowed as George Dallas entered
the shop, and asked him what they could do for
him. Dallas replied that he wanted a warm
thick overcoat, "if they'd got such a thing."

"Such a thing! Well, there may be such a
thing, perhaps, but I'm not certain, not being an
article kept in stock," replied Mr. Evans,"which
is mostly tarpaulin for the railway guards
and stokers, likewise canal boatmen, which
is often customers. A warm thick overcoat,"
repeated the old man, "is a article generally made
to order, though I've a sort of a recollection of
a something of the kind returned on our hands
in consequence of the party which was staying
at the Lion having left promiscuous. Let me
see!" he continued, opening two or three
drawers. "I ain't so young as I was, sir, and I'm
touched in the wind; and this nasty gas which
we've only had this winter don't do for me,
making me bust out in sudden prusperation.
Ho! I thought so! Here's a warm thick overcoat,
blue Witney, lined with plaid; that's a
article I can recommend; our own make; we ain't
ashamed of it, you see!" and he pointed to a
label stitched inside just below the collar, where
the inevitable "Evans, Tailor," in gilt letters,
was supplemented by the address, "Amherst."

George Dallas took the coat and slipped it
on. It fitted tolerably, and was thick and
warm. "What is the price?" he asked.

"We can do that for you at fifty–three and
six," said the old man. "It was a three–
pounder, that coat was, when made for the party
at the Lion, but we'll make a reduction now.
Fifty–three and six, and our own make. You
couldn't do better."

"I dare say not," said Dallas, absently.
"Please to change this for me."

At the sight of the bank–note Mr. Evans's
pleasant face became a little clouded. He did
not relish the notion of changing notes for
persons with whom he had no previous acquaintance.
But after he had taken the note in his
hand and held it between his eyes and the light,
and flattened it out on the counter, his cheerful
expression returned, and he said, "All right,
sir. I'll change it and welcome! I know where
you got this note, sir! Ah, you may start, but I
do! You got it from our post–office, lower down
the street; here's the post–office stamp on it,
which they're compelled to put on every note
passing through their hands. Look, 'Amherst,
B. 1, Jan. 30.' Thank you, sir; six and six's,
three and seven is ten; thank you, sir!" and
the old man, having counted the change from a
cash–box in a desk at the back of the shop,
hurried round to open the door and bow his
customer out.

Within half an hour George Dallas was in
the train on his return to London.

OLD RED–LETTER DAYS.

EVERY one will understand what is meant
here by Red–Letter Days. We have all our
official red–letter days, when it is incumbent
on us to be happy and joyful in demeanour,
and when all the necessary preparations
have been made to that end. There is the
titular expedition, the pic–nic, the pleasure–
party by rail, when we go out to enjoy ourselves
as by recipe, and—do not. These are the
regulation red–letter days, when we feast and make
merry, as per order; but fail signally. We find,
then, that we may call our spirits from the vasty
deep, or any other quarter, but they decline
to come. No; every red–letter day, if the
reader will search back his memory, will be
proved to be accidental. Every one of us have
—or should have, unless we be Miserimus—a
few of these glorified milestones along the rutty,
dusty, ill–watered, weary high road which we are
all trudging along and call Life. The most
exhausted and battered tramp of us all has
found these little bits of green grass, these
shady places, into which he has turned from the
glare and the dust, and dropped down to rest
his limbs. But these places, as I have said
before, were not the places set down in the guides
and road–books, but merely turned up by chance.
If we search back for those pleasant spots, we
shall find that all these dissolving views, settling
before us with trembling, quivering, and faint
colours, are not cunningly and artfully devised
beforehand.

Not but that we scarcely make sufficient
capital of all our advantages. The days are
slipping by, and there are the hundred thousand
sights and shows of our earth, from the greater