grievances; and the dumb nod that passed
between him and his lodger whenever they chanced
to meet, appeared to be in consonance with Mr.
Hutchins's feelings, and to draw him towards
old Jerry with an attraction that neither
cordiality of manner nor eloquence of speech
could have exercised. Jerry's opinion of the
saturnine, elf-locked carpenter, was confidentially
expressed to Lingo, and was not unfavourable.
"Ay, ay," said he, in the tone of voice that a
man uses who is unable to cope with another in
argument, but retains a stubborn conviction
struggling for utterance, "ay, ay, I know
he's not your sort. Too dry. No warmth of
manner. You're as explosive as a rocket yourself.
Touch, and go; and, as I often tell you,
your weak point is betraying your feelings.
The fact is, you're all wag with your friends."
(By which phrase Mr. Shaw intended no reference
to Lingo's buoyant sense of humour, but
merely alluded to his tail.) "But Hutchins
isn't a bad fellow. Any man married to that
woman must end by being either a mute or a
murderer. By George, I'd like to know which
you'd have done yourself under the
circumstances? Aha!"

Lingo blinked with one eye, gave a lazy
thump of his tail on. the floor, and, opening his
jaws in a prodigious yawn, showed a formidable
range of strong yellow teeth, in exceedingly
good condition.

"Of coorse ye would!" exclaimed Jerry,
triumphantly, and as if he had received the
fullest categorical reply. "Of coorse ye would,
divil doubt ye!"

This conversation—if the word may be so
used, in Jerry's imagination it was decidedly
so—was taking place on the Monday succeeding
the evening made memorable by Mr. Fluke's
charity sermon. Jerry Shaw was seated at the
table, spectacles on nose, mending a pair of
trousers with great neatness and dexterity, and
Lingo lay stretched at his feet. Suddenly the
dog pricked up one ear attentively, there came
a tap at the door, and the next moment Mr.
Hutchins put his head into the room.

"Talk of the——umph!" muttered old Jerry
aside to Lingo. Then he nodded at his landlord,
and motioned him to enter. Mr.
Hutchins peered at his lodger from beneath his
tangled black locks with a helpless perplexed
expression. He had seen the old man daily for
three or four months, and had never yet spoken
to him. It appeared to require a great effort
to begin. At length, however, he said in a
strong Hammerham dialect, "Her's very bad."

"Her! Who?" asked Shaw, looking up.

"The little wench. Cordy they calls her."

Before he had well uttered the words, Jerry
had sprung to his feet, and the dog, seeing the
sudden movement, ran towards the door in
violent excitement.

"Now, now, now," said Jerry, hastily
buttoning his coat, " be aisy—be cool. Don't be
putting yourself into this state. I know. I'm
going. But, take my advice, and lie down for
two seconds."

The docile beast obeyed, keeping his intelligent
eyes upon his master's face, and obviously
ready to leap up again at a moment's notice.

"What's the matter? Who told you?"
asked Mr. Shaw.

"Well, it wur the young woman where they
lodges. I see her this mornin'. And her says
the little wench wur took bad last night, her
says. Her's abed now, her says."

The delivery of this address—Mr. Hutchins
being almost entirely unaccustomed to private
as well as to public speaking—took some time.
When it was finished, Mr. Shaw was already
making his way down-stairs. Lingo, conscious
of some unusual excitement, bounded eagerly
before him. Mr. Hutchins opened the street
door with his strong workman's hand.

''Her's a—a nice mild little wench," said he,
hesitatingly. " Niver blethers nor bounces, her
doesn't. I wish—I shud like—I——"

"Thank ye," said Jerry, with a sparkle in his
stolid grey eye. " I understand. I'll tell her
that you asked kindly for her, and send your
duty, and hope she'll soon get better."

Mr. Hutchins nodded expressively.
Hammerham artisans do not habitually touch their
caps to their superiors. Mr. Hutchins, however,
made some approach to doing so, by pulling a
straggling lock of hair that hung over his eyes.
The action was intended to convey his consciousness
that the shabby old man, who lodged in his
house at the weekly rent of five shillings, and
who mended his own trousers, was a gentleman.
A fact to the perception of which his wife's
finer poetical faculties had not yet attained.

Jerry Shaw, preceded by Lingo, arrived at
the Trescotts' lodgings. Mr. Trescott was out.
Corda was still in bed. The doctor had just
left her. The servant didn't think there was
much the matter. Did not know what her
illness was. Hoped it was nothing catching.
Could not tell whether the child might see
anybody, or not. She was alone now.

Mr. Shaw stood hesitating in the narrow
passage, and the servant, holding the door in her
hand, was trying to edge him out into the street
again, when a loud bark from the upper story
was followed by the tinkle of a cracked bell.

"Lord bless us!" cried the servant, a low-
browed cross-grained woman, " the little gurl's
a ringin'. I ain't got time to be nursery-maid."

Jerry silently—he did most things silently—
hung his hat and crooked stick on a peg in the
passage, and walked softly up-stairs. Corda
was still occupying her brother's room. Alfred
had not been home since she had fallen ill, and
the doctor had desired that for the present, at
least, the child should not be moved. The old
man stood at the half-open door for a minute,
tapped softly, and then went in.

Corda was lying in bed, with one thin blue-
veined hand outside the coverlet. Lingo was
sitting on his haunches at the bedside, and in
this posture his head just attained the level of
the little frail hand into which he had thrust
his nose. Corda's face was turned towards the
door. Her cheeks were flushed, and her large eyes