Der old Schaub vot den miser dey call! Der
Schaub vill change die gulden for den bank-
notes, m-ja?"

"It does not matter to me much who changes it,
so long as I get the proper    value!" said George,
with a laugh, "and if the old Schaub, as you
call yourself, can give me bank-notes for a
hundred and forty pounds, I'll say done with you
at once!"

"Wass vat wos ' done' mit me for hundert
forty pounds! See — first will make the door
to. Let das folk call miser old Schaub, but
not let das folk see vot old Schaub misers.
Ha, ha!';

So saying, the old gentleman closed the door
of the shop and locked it carefully. Then
he retired to the back of the counter,
removed several heavy old books from one of the
shelves, and unlocked a secret closet in the
wall. When he turned again to George, whom
he had left on the other side of the counter, he
had a little roll of English bank-notes in his
hand. From this he selected four notes— two
of the value of fifty and two of twenty pounds.
These he handed to Dallas, receiving the
equivalent in Dutch money.

"I am very much obliged to you indeed, Mr.
Schaub," said George. "By doing this for me,
you've saved my going to the bank, and a good
deal of trouble."

"Obliged to him is not at all, mein goot
freund Vart —- Paul Vart," said the old gentleman.
"Miser das folk calls old Schaub, but it is
not that; he has his leetle commissions, vy not
he as well as banks? Goot deal of money pass
through old Schaub's hands, and of vot pass
none go clean through, always von little
shticks to him fingers!"

That night George Dallas wrote to Stewart
Routh, enclosing him the money, and telling
him that literary engagements had sprung up
which might perhaps keep him some little time
from London. The letter despatched, he felt
a different man. The tie was loosed, the
coupling-chain was broken! No longer
enthralled by a debt of gratitude to vice, he could
try what he could do to make a name — a name
which his mother should not blush to hear — a
name which should be murmured with delight
by Clare Carruthers!

CHAPTER VI. IDLESSE.

WHEN George Dallas had relieved his
conscience by despatching the money to Routh, he
felt that he had sufficiently discharged a moral
duty to enable him to lie fallow for a little time
and reflect upon the excellence of the deed,
without immediately pushing forward on that
career of stern duty which he had prescribed for
himself. In his desultory frame of mind, it
afforded him the greatest pleasure to sit apart in
the quaintly trimmed gardens or on the shady
quays idly looking on the life passing before
him, thinking that he was no longer in the
power of those who had so long exercised an
evil influence over him, and recollecting that
out of the balance of the sum which he had
received from Mr. Dieverbrug he had enough left
to keep him without any absolute necessity for
resorting to work for some little time to come.
For George Dallas was essentially an idler and
a dreamer, an intending well-doer, but steeped
to the lips in procrastination, and without the
smallest knowledge of the realities of life. He
had hopes and ambitions, newly kindled as one
might say; honest aspirations, such as in most
men would have proved spurs to immediate
enterprise; but George Dallas lay about on the
seats of the public gardens, or leaned against
the huge trees bordering the canals, and as he
puffed into the air the light blue smoke and
watched it curling and eddying above his head,
he thought how delightful it would be to see
Clare Carruthers blushing with delight at his
literary success; he pictured himself telling her
how he had at last succeeded in making a name,
and how the desire of pleasing her had been his
greatest incentive; he saw his mother trembling
and joyous, his step-father with his arms open
and his cheque-book at his step-son's disposal;
he had a dim vision of Amherst church, and
flower-strewing maidens, and ringing bells, and
cheering populace; and then he puffed out a
little more smoke, and thought that he really
must begin to think about getting into harness
again.

As a first step to this desirable result, he paid
his bill at the Amsterdam hotel and started off
for the Hague, where he remained for a fortnight,
enjoying himself in the laziest and pleasantest
manner, lounging in the picture-gallery and the
royal library, living remarkably well, smoking
a great deal, and thinking about Clare Carruthers,
and in odd half hours, after breakfast or before
he went to bed, doing a little literary work,
transcript of his day's observations, which he sent to
The Mercury with a line to Grafton Leigh,
telling him that private affairs had necessitated
his coming abroad, but that when he returned
he would keep the promise he had made of
constant contributions to the paper; meanwhile, he
sent a few sketches just to keep his hand in.
In reply to this letter he received a communication
from his friend Cunningham, telling him
that his chief was much pleased with the articles,
and would be glad, as George was so near, if he
would go over to Amsterdam and write an
account of the starting of the fleet for the
herring-fishery—an event which was just about
to come off, and which, owing to special
circumstances at the time, excited a peculiar interest
in England. In this letter, Cunningham enclosed
another, which he said had been for some time
lying at the office, and which, on opening, George
found to be from the proprietors of The Piccadilly,
presenting their compliments to Mr. Paul
Ward, stating that they were recommended
by their " literary adviser," who was much
struck by the brilliancy and freshness of so
much of Mr. Paul Ward's serial story as had
been sent in, to accept that story for their
magazine, regretting that Mr. Ward's name
was not yet sufficiently well known to enable