"Alas!" thought I, " that Myrtle Groves are
few!"

On the morrow, I bade farewell to my friends,
and was just passing the outskirts of the pleasant
village, when I noticed two figures, one of
them stooping and emaciated, leaning heavily
upon the arm of the other, scarcely younger,
though far more vigorous, than herself. Mrs.
Thompson and servant, was my conclusion.

The latter seated her mistress, tenderly, in a
rustic seat under some elms, which appeared to
be the limit of their walk, placed a book and
some knitting beside her, and then strolled
slowly on, examining the hedge-side flowers.

As I presently passed the old lady, I could
observe but too distinctly the marks of fallen
gentility in her dress, &c. Her head was bowed
down, and her white shrunken hands clasped
together on her lap. There was one ring on
her finger—no wedding-ring—a ring of blue
enamel, with a little cross of brilliants. A vague
remembrance shot across me, as if I had seen
that ring before. I turned suddenly, and caught
a portion of the sitter's profile. Could it be?
But then " Mrs. Thompson!" I hesitated.

The servant, still wandering on, was just
turning the angle of the road. If the lady were
indeed Miss Sympleson, that must be Christine!
I hastened on, passed her, and glanced back.
Christine it was!

She uttered a cry, and ran towards me.

"Oh, Master H.," she had always called me
"master," " is it you? Have you seen her?
Did she know you?"

The poor woman was trembling with agitation.
I soothed her, made her sit down under
the trees, and drew from her the whole of the
distressing story, which may be re-told in a very
few words.

The grasp of Mr. Suckham Drye had gradually
tightened upon my too-confiding friend,
until the whole of her means, beyond what might
have been obtained by Bullingham, were
absorbed in one or other of his abortive schemes.
Awakened at last to her position, poor Miss
Sympleson was induced by this man, who still
retained his extraordinary influence over her, to
seek to retrieve her losses by investing every
shilling that remained to her in the St. George's
Channel, &c., Company, whose shares were rising
every hour. This was the death-blow. The
bubble burst. Miss Sympleson was a beggar.

But what, I asked, could induce her nephew
to stand coolly by, and allow this swindling
vagabond, whose character he perfectly
understood, to work the ruin of his kind relative?

Christine shook her head. With a little
pressing, she confessed her belief that there
was little to choose between those two
"gentlemen." Without being formally admitted to
her mistress's confidence in such matters, the
faithful servant knew enough to convince her
that Bullingham had secured at least one-half
of his aunt's property.

But had he done nothing? Was I to understand
that he had abandoned his benefactress to
her fate? Had he made no provision for her
at all?

Not one halfpenny. It was possible he might
not be fully aware of her destitute condition.
After the great shock, Miss Sympleson had
written one letter, entreating that advice she,
poor thing, had been hitherto so prompt to
bestow. But no answer came, and the pride of
the poor lady revolting against any further
appeal to one so much her debtor, she came to
the resolution to retire under an assumed name
into some cheap neighbourhood, and there
patiently await the change that time and sorrow
were rapidly working in her feeble frame. They
had means to pay for lodging, but nothing more
—and their food was furnished by their generous
neighbours of Myrtle Grove."

I had hardly patience to hear her to an end,
so eager was I to hasten to my dear old
friend. But Christine warned me that her
present state of health would not admit of sudden
surprises; and, with reluctance, I was prevailed
upon to proceed at once to London, and defer
my interview with her until I had afforded
her base relative one more chance of redeeming,
in some poor measure, the wrong he had
done.

My heart swelled as I took out my well-filled
pocket-book, and forced upon Christine a
portion, infinitesimally small, of the debt I owed
her generous mistress. So we parted.

The very next day saw me assailing the door
of the eminent counsel in Lincoln's Inn, and
requesting an immediate interview.

The clerk disappeared, and returned with an
answer that Mr. Bullingham had revisited his
chambers that day for the first time, and was
much fatigued, but would see me.

Mr. Bullingham had been ill? He had—both
abroad (at Nice) and at home—for several
months. I strode in.

Freddy was lying upon a couch, almost the
shadow of his former self; but he assured me
he was recovering, and that his physician
stipulated but for a few weeks' longer abstinence
from work.

"I shall be glad indeed to be at it again," he
added. " This has been a terrible check in the
race, and I am at present nowhere. I have
suffered both in purse and position, while you, you
lucky fellow, have been shearing the golden
fleece of Australia, like a thousand Jasons rolled
into one."

"I cannot see that you have much reason to
complain, Bullingham," I replied. " There is a
certain kind of sheep bred in English pastures,
both easy and profitable to shear. You can,
perhaps, guess to what I refer."

"I'll be hanged if I can, though," said Fred.
"Sheep? What sheep? Clients?"

"Aunts," said I, quietly, " and simple-minded
folk, who follow their affections rather than
their judgment. Have you seen much of your
friend Suckham Drye of late?"

"Suck— ha, ha, ha!" and he broke into a
roar of laughter. " That rascal? You remember
him? No, no; I haven't seen him these—
years!"

"You have split with him?"

"' Split!'" repeated Bullingham, colouring.