ineffective. But, like most men of business,
who have made money, his grand doubts
and difficulties settled upon tinanciiil points.

Although the acquirements of our Mayor
had never been distinguished for

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or any other of the ingenious tortuosities into
which the imaginations of budding Cantabs
are expanded; although the remotest idea
of squaring the circle never entered his head,
and even the pons asinorum would
probably have proved as treacherous to his
mental footsteps as the bridge in the Vision
of Mirza; still he was a terribly skilful man
at figures. At home he knew where every
farthing went, and how, and to whom, and
what for, and with what loss or profit. At a
vestry he was equally useful. He could tell
what money had been voted for such and such
a purpose; and woe betide any mistakes on
the part of the recipients or administrators!
Hapless was the board of guardians upon
whom his sarcasm, and, worse still, his minute
knowledge of facts, once opened itself! Woe
betide the butcher or baker whose " contract "
was broken! As for luxurious parish dinners
out of the funds properly belonging to the
poor, Mr. Cracknell, like Molière's Mock
Doctor, had changed all that.

But when Mr. Cracknell sat down to
his Church history studies, the "figures"
bothered him completely. Do what he would,
he could not understand Church arithmetic.
When Jack Miller, the collector of poor's
rates, absconded, taking with him the wife
of his " security," who but Cracknell first
discovered, and then adjusted, the deficient
money? When the Goodman's Fields charity
had lain dormant, who had called upon the
trustees to refund, and who had calculated
the sum to be refunded, but Cracknell?
No; whatever might be the matter with
other people's heads, Mr. Cracknell felt that
his own head, like his heart, was in the
right place. Let us see what was the
arithmetical difficulty that could puzzle a man
whose arithmetic was the terror even of
workhouse contractors and county court attorneys.

As you look from a little terrace in front
of the " Line and Twine," Traddler's Hill,
you see the whole city of Noughtenborough
spread out before you, like a raised map, and
looking very active, cheerful, populous, and
well-built. There are plenty of old-fashioned
houses within the town, but you cannot
discriminate at this distance. The cathedral is
the chief object. The spire is a grand one, and
tops everything for miles and miles around,
while its clerestory, or long range of upper
windows, relieved by light buttresses, and crowned
with still lighter turrets, forms a favourite
resting-place for the eye, as it raises itself
above the quiet stream of the Salmon Row,
that winds round below the terrace on which
we are lounging. The grey stone stands in
pleasant contrast to the delicate blue of the
sky, and the spire seems to direct all men's
thoughts to the heaven towards which it
rears its own head.

On just such a calm summer's day as is
most likely to make men thankful for what
they have, without grumbling about what
they have not, the Mayor might be seen
walking along the terrace aforesaid. It
was a rare thing to see the Mayor walking
alone; for although Mrs. Cracknell was rather
an invalid, and seldom left home for any
distance, he generally had a pretty daughter,
married or unmarried, as the case might be,
hanging on his arm, or else some old friend
and companion in parochial or civil combats.
But, on the present occasion, the Mayor was
alone, and, we are sorry to say, had no
companion but the uncomfortable words "THREE
AND SIXPENCE."

Strange company, no doubt; and too little
to harass the mind of our steady-going
Mayor. Had it been an overcharge for
cab-fare, he would have settled it easily
enough, simply by not paying it, or by
"committing" the extortioner. Had it been for a
doll's bonnet, or a bottle of bouquet de la rose, he
would only have kissed the extravagant little
daughter, and thanked Heaven that he had
wealth enough to purchase many more such
little luxuries for the " whole lot," as he
familiarly called his family. But this "THREE
AND SIXPENCE" sate heavy on his soul. It
was an incubus of other men's evils; it was
an indigestion arising from dinners eaten by
his neighbours; it was a silver imprint, in
letters of current coin, telling a tale of other
men's dishonesty, misappropriation, and
imposture.

Just at that moment, the Very Reverend the
Dean of Noughtenborough chanced to pass by,
looking unexceptionably respectable, black,
and sleek, with a hat and cassock that even
Wildgoose must have reverenced. He moved
politely, and said "Good morning" to the
Mayor, who returned both the salutation and
the wish. But, as he turned away from the
Dean, he mentally, yet almost aloud, repeated
the mysterious words "THREE AND SIXPENCE"

Anon, he met the Reverend Whittigift
Grypnell, Canon of Noughtenborough, also
out for his morning's walk, and looking quite
as respectable, black, and sleek, as the Dean.
Again polite .salutations were exchanged, and
again the Mayor muttered the words "THREE
AND SIXPENCE."

What could there be in the presence of the
Dean and Canon of Noughtenborough so
painfully suggestive of " THREE AND SIXPENCE?"
Was the poor Mayor degenerating into
monomania, and were clergymen the especial
irritants that developed it?

No: the solution of this enigma lay deep
in the volumes of Church history, over which
our worthy Mayor had been poring; and it is
from those volumes only that we can draw an
explanation of his deep and solemn musings
on this important financial subject.