myself too; and when I pulled Daddy in arter
me, I guv us all three up for this world."

"Yes," said Doubleyear, "it must have
gone queer with us if Peggy had not come in
with the rake. How d'yee feel, old girl; for
you've had a narrow escape too. I wonder
we were not too heavy for you, and so pulled
you in to go with us."

"The Lord be praised! " fervently
ejaculated Peggy, pointing towards the pallid face
that lay surrounded with ashes. A convulsive
twitching passed over the features, the lips
trembled, the ashes over the breast heaved,
and a low moaning sound, which might have
come from the bottom of the canal, was heard.
Again the moaning sound, and then the eyes
opened, but closed almost immediately. "Poor
dear soul! " whispered Peggy, "how he
suffers in surviving. Lift him up a little.
Softly. Don't be afeared. We're only your
good angels, like—only poor cinder-sifters—
don'tee be afeared."

By various kindly attentions and manœuvres
such as these poor people had been accustomed
to practise on those who were taken out of
the canal, the unfortunate gentleman was
gradually brought to his senses. He gazed
about him, as well he might—now looking in
the anxious, though begrimed, faces of the
three strange objects, all in their "weeds"
and dust—and then up at the huge Dust-
heap, over which the moon was now slowly
rising.

"Land of quiet Death! " murmured he,
faintly, "or land of Life, as dark and still—I
have passed from one into the other; but
which of ye I am now in, seems doubtful to
my senses."

"Here we are, poor gentleman," cried
Peggy, "here we are, all friends about you.
How did 'ee tumble into the canal?"

"The Earth, then, once more! " said the
stranger, with a deep sigh. "I know where I
am, now. I remember this great dark hill of
ashes—like Death's kingdom, full of all sorts
of strange things, and put to many uses."

"Where do you live? " asked Old Doubleyear;
"shall we try and take you home,
Sir?"

The stranger shook his head mournfully.
All this time, little Jem had been assiduously
employed in rubbing his feet and then his
hands; in doing which the piece of dirty
parchment, with the miniature-frame, dropped
out of his breast-pocket. A good thought
instantly struck Peggy.

"Run, Jemmy dear—run with that golden
thing to Mr. Spikechin, the pawnbroker's—
get something upon it directly, and buy
some nice brandy—and some Godfrey's
cordial—and a blanket, Jemmy—and call a
coach, and get up outside on it, and make
the coachee drive back here as fast as you
can."

But before Jemmy could attend to this,
Mr. Waterhouse, the stranger whose life
they had preserved, raised himself on one
elbow, and extended his hand to the miniature-
frame. Directly he looked at it, he raised
himself higher up—turned it about once or
twice—then caught up the piece of parchment,
and uttering an ejaculation, which no
one could have distinguished either as of joy
or of pain, sank back fainting.

In brief, this parchment was a portion of
the title-deeds he had lost; and though it did
not prove sufficient to enable him to recover
his fortune, it brought his opponent to a
composition, which gave him an annuity for
life. Small as this was, he determined that
these poor people, who had so generously
saved his life at the risk of their own, should
be sharers in it. Finding that what they
most desired was to have a cottage in the
neighbourhood of the Dust-heap, built large
enough for all three to live together, and
keep a cow, Mr. Waterhouse paid a visit to
Manchester Square, where the owner of the
property resided. He told his story, as far
as was needful, and proposed to purchase the
field in question.

The great Dust-Contractor was much
amused, and his daughter—a very
accomplished young lady—was extremely interested.
So the matter was speedily arranged to the
satisfaction and pleasure of all parties. The
acquaintance, however, did not end here.
Mr. Waterhouse renewed his visits very
frequently, and finally made proposals for the
young lady's hand, she having already
expressed her hopes of a propitious answer
from her father.

"Well, Sir," said the latter, " you wish to
marry my daughter, and she wishes to marry
you. You are a gentleman and a scholar, but
you have no money. My daughter is what
you see, and she has no money. But I have;
and therefore, as she likes you, and I like you,
I'll make you both an offer. I will give my
daughter twenty thousand pounds,—or you
shall have the Dust-heap. Choose!"

Mr. Waterhouse was puzzled and amused,
and referred the matter entirely to the
young lady. But she was for having the
money, and no trouble. She said the Dust-
heap might be worth much, but they did not
understand the business. " Very well," said
her father, laughing, "then, there's the
money."

This was the identical Dust-heap, as we
know from authentic information, which was
subsequently sold for forty thousand pounds,
and was exported to Russia to rebuild
Moscow.