done, that puts it in my power t' acknowledge
once more my lastin thankfulness for
this present action."

She was fain to take up the note again
and to substitute the much smaller sum
he had named. He was neither courtly,
nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any
respect; and yet his manner of accepting
it, and of expressing his thanks without
more words, had a grace in it that Lord
Chesterfield could not have taught his son
in a century.

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one
leg and sucking his walking-stick with
sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained
this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart,
he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word.

"Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we
go, I should like to speak to him a moment.
Something comes into my head. If you'll
step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention
it. Never mind a light, man!" Tom was
remarkably impatient of his moving towards
the cupboard, to get one. "It don't want a
light."

Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed
the room door, and held the lock in his
hand.

"I say!" he whispered. "I think I can do
you a good turn. Don't ask me what it is,
because it may not come to anything. But
there's no harm in my trying."

His breath fell like a flame of fire on
Stephen's ear; it was so hot.

"That was our light porter at the Bank,"
said Tom, "who brought you the message to-
night. I call him our light porter, because
I belong to the Bank too."

Stephen thought "What a hurry he is in!"
He spoke so confusedly.

"Well!" said Tom. "Now look here!
When are you off?"

"T'day's Monday," replied Stephen,
considering. "Why, sir, Friday or Saturday,
nigh 'bout."

"Friday or Saturday," said Tom. "Now,
look here! I am not sure that I can do
you the good turn I want to do you—that's
my sister, you know, in your room—but I
may be able to, and if I should not be
able to, there's no harm done. So I tell
you what. You'll know our light porter
again?"

"Yes sure," said Stephen.

"Very well," returned Tom. "When
you leave work of a night, between this
and your going away, just hang about the
Bank an hour or so, will you? Don't take
on, as if you meant anything, if he should
see you hanging about there; because I
shan't put him up to speak to you, unless
I find I can do you the service I want to
do you. In that case he'll have a note or
a message for you, but not else. Now look
here! You are sure you understand."

He had wormed a finger, in the darkness,
through a button-hole of Stephen's
coat, and was screwing that corner of the
garment tight up, round and round, in
an extraordinary manner.

"I understan, sir," said Stephen.

"Now look here!" repeated Tom. "Be
sure you don't make any mistake then, and
don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we
go home, what I have in view, and she'll
approve, I know. Now look here! You're
all right, are you? You understand all
about it? Very well then. Come along,
Loo!"

He pushed the door open as he called
to her, but did not return into the room,
or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs.
He was at the bottom when she began to
descend, and was in the street before she
could take his arm.

Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until
the brother and sister were gone, and until
Stephen came back with the candle in his
hand. She was in a state of inexpressible
admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an
unaccountable old woman, wept, "because
she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs.
Pegler was so flurried lest the object of
her admiration should return by any chance,
or anybody else should come, that her
cheerfulness was ended for that night. It
was late too, to people who rose early and
worked hard; therefore the party broke
up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their
mysterious acquaintance to the door of the
Travellers' Coffee House, where they parted
from her.

They walked back together to the corner
of the street where Rachael lived, and as
they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence
crept upon them. When they came to the
dark corner where their unfrequent meetings
always ended, they stopped, still silent,
as if both were afraid to speak.

"I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael,
afore I go, but if not——"

"Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis
better that we make up our minds to be
open wi' one another."

"Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and
better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael,
that as 'tis but a day or two that remains,
'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be
seen wi' me. 'T might bring thee into
trouble, fur no good."

"'Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind.
But thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis
for that."

"Well, well," said he. "'Tis better,
onnyways."

"Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that
happens, Stephen?"

"Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven
be wi' thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven
thank thee and reward thee!"

"May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all
thy wanderings, and send thee peace and
rest at last!"

"I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen