on the portraits of the late Duchess of Kent.
The name this distinguished foreigner brought
with her from beneath the glowing skies of a
sunny clime was (on Polly's authority) Miss
Melluka, and the costly nature of her outfit as
a housekeeper, from the Barbox coffers, may
be inferred from the two facts that her silver
teaspoons were as large as her kitchen poker,
and that the proportions of her watch exceeded
those of her frying-pan. Miss Melluka was
graciously pleased to express her entire approbation
of the Circus, and so was Polly; for the
ponies were speckled, and brought down nobody
when they fired, and the savagery of the wild
beasts appeared to be mere smoke—- which
article, in fact, they did produce in large quantities
from their insides. The Barbox absorption
in the general subject throughout the realisation
of these delights was again a sight to see,
nor was it less worthy to behold at dinner, when
he drank to Miss Melluka, tied stiff in a chair
opposite to Polly (the fair Circassian possessing
an unbendable spine), and even induced the
waiter to assist in carrying out with due decorum
the prevailing glorious idea. To wind up,
there came the agreeable fever of getting Miss
Melluka and all her wardrobe and rich possesions
into a fly with Polly, to be taken home. But
by that time Polly had become unable to look
upon such accumulated joys with waking eyes,
and had withdrawn her consciousness into the
wonderful Paradise of a child's sleep. " Sleep,
Polly, sleep," said Barbox Brothers, as her
head dropped on his shoulder; " you shall not
fall out of this bed, easily, at any rate!"

What rustling piece of paper he took from his
pocket, and carefully folded into the bosom of
Polly's frock, shall not be mentioned. He said
nothing about it, and nothing shall be said about
it. They drove to a modest suburb of the great
ingenious town, and stopped at the fore-court of
a small house. " Do not wake the child," said
Barbox Brothers, softly, to the driver, " I will
carry her in as she is."

Greeting the light at the opened door which
was held by Polly's mother, Polly's bearer
passed on with mother and child into a ground-
floor room. There, stretched on a sofa, lay a
sick man, sorely wasted, who covered his eyes
with his emaciated hands.

"Tresham," said Barbox, in a kindly voice,
"I have brought you back your Polly, fast
asleep. Give me your hand, and tell me you
are better."

The sick man reached forth his right hand,
and bowed his head over the hand into which it
taken, and kissed it. "Thank you, thank
you! I may say that I am well and happy."

"That's brave," said Barbox. "Tresham, I
have a fancy—- can you make room for me beside
you here?"

He sat down on the sofa as he said the words,
cherishing the plump peachy cheek that lay
uppermost on his shoulder.

"I have a fancy, Tresham (I am getting
quite an old fellow now, you know, and old
fellows may take fancies into their heads sometimes)
to give up Polly, having found her, to no
one but you. Will you take her from me?"

As the father held out his arms for the child,
each of the two men looked steadily at the other.

"She is very dear to you, Tresham?"

"Unutterably dear."

"God bless her! It is not much, Polly,"
he continued, turning his eyes upon her peaceful
face as he apostrophised her, "it is not
much, Polly, for a blind and sinful man to
invoke a blessing on something so far better
than himself as a little child is; but it would
be much—- much upon his cruel head, and
much upon, his guilty soul—- if he could be so
wicked as to invoke a curse. He had better
have a millstone round his neck, and be cast
into the deepest sea. Live and thrive, my
pretty baby!" Here he kissed her. " Live
and prosper, and become in time the mother of
other little children, like the Angels who behold
The Father's face!"

He kissed her again, gave her up gently to
both her parents, and went out.

But he went not to Wales. No, he never
went to Wales. He went straightway for
another stroll about the town, and he looked in
upon the people at their work, and at their
play, here, there, everywhere, and where not.
For he was Barbox Brothers and Co. now,
and had taken thousands of partners into the
solitary firm.

He had at length got back to his hotel room,
and was standing before his fire refreshing
himself with a glass of hot drink which he had
stood upon the chimney-piece, when he heard
the town clocks striking, and, referring to his
watch, found the evening to have so slipped away,
that they were striking twelve. As he put up
his watch again, his eyes met those of his reflection
in the chimney-glass.

"Why it's your birthday already," he said,
smiling. " You are looking very well. I wish
you many happy returns of the day."

He had never before bestowed that wish upon
himself. "By Jupiter!" he discovered, "it alters
the whole case of running away from one's
birthday! It's a thing to explain to Phoebe.
Besides, here is quite a long story to tell her,
that has sprung out of the road with no story.
I'll go back, instead of going on. I'll go back
by my friend Lamps's Up X presently."

He went back to Mugby Junction, and in
point of fact he established himself at Mugby
Junction. It was the convenient place to live
in, for brightening Phoebe's life. It was the
convenient place to live in, for having her
taught music by Beatrice. It was the
convenient place to live in, for occasionally
borrowing Polly. It was the convenient place to
live in, for being joined at will to all sorts of
agreeable places and persons. So, he became
settled there, and, his house, standing in an
elevated situation, it is noteworthy of him in
conclusion, as Polly herself might (not irreverently)
have put it:

There was an Old Barbox who lived on a hill,
And if he ain't gone, he lives there still.