leaving his little Bessy outside, with fifteen
pounds, the balance of what he had already
expended of his quarter's salary. The night
was very lowering, and rain appeared to be
imminent. It came down, presently, in big,
pattering drops, but John had promised not
to be long.

Why should I tell, in extenso, the humiliating
tale of how John Simcox got tipsy that
night? How he forced all the money, pound
by pound, from his little daughter? How,
when after immense labour and trouble, he had
at last been brought to his own street door,
he suddenly started off at an unknown tangent
(running hard and straight) and disappeared.
How his daughter wandered about, weeping,
in the pouring rain, seeking him; how, at two
o'clock in the morning, a doleful party arrived
at a little house in Camberwell—a very moist
policeman, a weeping, shivering, drenched
little girl over whom the municipal had in pity
thrown his oilskin cape, and a penniless,
hatless, drunken man, all covered with mud,
utterly sodden, wretched, and degraded.
Drop the curtain for pity's sake.

The first impulse of Mrs. Simcox, after
duly loading her besotted husband with
reproaches, was to beat Bessy. The anger of
this matron, generally so gently languid, was
something fearful to view. An enraged sheep
is frantic. She was frustrated however, in
her benevolent intention, first by the policeman,
afterwards by Bessy herself, who wet,
fatigued, and miserable (but in an artful and
designing manner, no doubt), first contrived
to faint away, and next day chose to fall into
a high fever.

In this fever—In the access thereof—she
lay three long weeks. In a lamentable state
of languor she lay many long weeks more.
The brokers were in again. The parlour carpet
was taken up and sent to the pawnbroker's.
There were no invalid comforts in the house;
no broth, nor chickens to make it, no arrowroot,
no sage, no port wine, no anything to
speak of, that was really wanted.

Stay, I am wrong. There was plenty of
doctors; there was plenty of doctor's stuff.
The chemists, apothecaries, and medical
practitioners of the neighbourhood, treated
the Simcox family, and the little sick daughter
in particular, in a liberal and considerate
manner. No one charged a penny, and all
were unremitting in attention. Kind-hearted
Mr. Sphoon, of Walworth, sent in—so to
speak—a hamper of quinine. Young Tuckett,
close by, who had just passed the Hall and
College, and opened his shop, offered to do
anything for Bessy. He would have dissected
her, even, I am sure. Great Doctor Bibby
came from Camberwell Grove, in his own
carriage, with his own footman with the black
worsted tags on his shoulder, and majestically
ordered change of air, and red Port wine for
Bessy Simcox. A majestic man was Dr.
Bibby, and a portly, and a deep-voiced and a
rich. His boots creaked, and his carriage-
springs oscillated; but he left a sovereign on
the Simcox mantlepiece for all that.

So there was something of those things
needful in the little house at Camberwell.
There was, besides, a certain nurse, active,
devoted, patient, soothing, and gentle. Not
Mrs. Simcox, who still lay on the sofa, now
reading the sentimental novels, now moaning
over the family difficulties. Not the Misses
Simcox, who, though they did tend their
sister, did it very fretfully and cross-grainedly,
and unanimously declared that the child
made herself out to be a great deal worse than
she really was. This nurse had rather a red
nose, and a tremulous hand. He came home
earlier from the City now; but he never stopped
at the stunning Champagne Ale House.
He had not been to the "Admiral Benbow"
for seven weeks. He sat by his daughter's
pillow; he read to her; he carried her in his
arms like a child as she was; he wept over
the injury he had done her; he promised,
and meant, and prayed for, amendment.

But what were the attentions of the doctors,
the hamper of quinine, the sovereign on the
mantelpiece even, after all? They were but
drops in the great muddled ocean of the Simcox
embarrassments. A sovereign would not
take Bessy to Malvern or Ventnor; the
quinine would not give her red Port wine and
change of air. The nurse grew desperate.
There was no money to be borrowed, none
to be obtained from the pawnbroker, none
to be received until next quarter-day—
before which, another month must elapse.
Should he attempt to obtain a small advance
of money from the Beast himself—the terrible
Braddlescroggs? Should he offer him two
hundred per cent, interest; should he fall
down on his knees before him; should he
write him a supplicatory letter; should he?

One evening, Simcox came home from the
office with many smiles upon his face. He
had borrowed the money, after many difficulties,
from the chief clerk. Ten pounds. He
would have to pay very heavy interest for it,
but never mind. Mrs. Simcox should take
Bessy to Ventnor for a fortnight or three
weeks. Quarter-day would soon come round.
Soon come round. Now and then his family
remarked, that the many smiles dropped from
their papa's countenance like a mask, and
that, underneath, he wore a look rather
haggard, rather weary, rather terrible; but then,
you see, he would have to pay such a heavy
interest for the ten pounds. Mrs. Simcox was
delighted at the prospect of her country trip;
poor Bessy smiled and thanked her papa; and
the two Miss Simcoxes, who had their own
private conviction that an excursion to the
sea-side was the very thing for them, to air
their beauty as it were, and not for that
designing bit of a thing, Bessy, with her pale
face; the two Miss Simcoxes, I say, went to
bed in a huff.

To the pleasant Island of Wight in the
British Channel, and the county of