know a little more about you both. I hav'n't
seen much of you up to the present time, and,
for anything I know, you may be rogues or
fools."

John Meade seemed rather to wince under
this address; but Peter Finch sat calm and
confident.

"To put a case now," said Mr. Collett:
"this morning a poor wretch of a gardener
came begging here. He could get no work, it
seems, and said he was starving. Well, I
knew something about the fellow, and I believe
he only told the truth; so I gave him a
shilling, to get rid of him. Now, I'm afraid I
did wrong. What reason had I for giving
him a shilling? What claim had he on me?
What claim has he on anybody? The value
of his labour in the market is all that a
working man has a right to; and when his
labour is of no value, why, then he must go
to the Devil, or wherever else he can. Eh,
Peter? That's my philosophy what do you
think?"

"I quite agree with you, sir," said Mr.
Finch; "perfectly agree with you. The value
of their labour in the market is all that labourer*s
can pretend to—all that they should
have. Nothing acts more perniciously than
the absurd extraneous support called charity."
"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Collett. "You're
a clever fellow, Peter. Go on, my dear
boy, go on!"

"What results from charitable aid?" continued
Peter. "The value of labour is kept
at an unnatural level. State charity is state
robbery: private charity is public wrong."

"That's it, Peter!" said Mr. Collett. "What
do you think of our philosophy, John?"

"I don't like it! I don't believe it!" said
John. "You were quite right to give the
man a shilling: I'd have given him a shilling
myself."

"Oh, you would—would you?" said Mr.
Collett. "You're very generous with your
shillings. Would you fly in the face of all
orthodox political economy, you Vandal?"

"Yes," said John: "as the Vandals flew
in the face of Rome, and destroyed what had
become a falsehood and a nuisance."

"Poor John!" said Mr. Collett. "We shall
never make anything of him, Peter. Really,
we'd better talk of something else. John,
tell us all about the last new novel."

They conversed on various topics, until the
arrival of the invalid's early bed-time parted
uncle and nephews for the night.

Mary Sutton seized an opportunity, the
next morning, after breakfast, to speak with
John Meade alone.

"John," said she, "do think more of your
own interest—of our interest. What occasion
for you to be so violent, last night, and contradict
Mr. Collett so shockingly? I saw
Peter Finch laughing to himself. John, you
must be more careful, or we shall never be
married."

"Well, Mary dear, I'll do my best," said
John. "It was that confounded Peter, with
his chain of iron maxims, that made me fly
out. I'm not an iceberg, Mary."

"Thank heaven, you're not!" said Mary;
"but an iceberg floats—think of that, John.
Remember—every time you offend Mr. Collett,
you please Mr. Finch."

"So I do!" said John. "Yes; I'll remember
that."

"If you would only try to be a little mean
and hard-hearted," said Mary; "just a little,
to begin with. You would only stoop to
conquer, John, and you deserve to conquer."

"May I gain my deserts, then!" said John.
"Are you not to be my loving wife, Mary?
And are you not to sit at needle-work in my
studio, whilst I paint my great historical
picture? How can this come to pass if Mr.
Collett will do nothing for us?"

"Ah, how indeed?" said Mary. "But
here's our friend, Peter Finch, coming through
the gate from his walk. I leave you together."
And, so saying, she withdrew.

"What, Meade!" said Peter Finch, as he
entered. "Skulking in-doors on a fine morning
like this! I've been all through the village.
Not an ugly place—but wants looking
after sadly. Roads shamefully muddy! Pigs
allowed to walk on the foot-path!"

"Dreadful!" exclaimed John.

"I say—you came out pretty strong last
night," said Peter. "Quite defied the old
man! But I like your spirit."

"I have no doubt you do," thought John.

"Oh, when I was a youth, I was a little
that way myself," said Peter. "But the
world—the world, my dear sir—soon cures
us of all romantic notions. I regret, of course,
to see poor people miserable; but what's the
use of regretting? It's no part of the business
of the superior classes to interfere with
the laws of supply and demand; poor people
must be miserable. What can't be cured
must be endured."

"That is to say," returned John, "what we
can't cure, they must endure?"

"Exactly so," said Peter. ,

Mr. Collett this day was too ill to leave his
bed. About noon he requested to see his
nephews in his bedroom. They found him
propped up by pillows, looking very weak, but
in good spirits, as usual.

"Weil, boys," said he, "here I am, you see:
brought to an anchor at last! The doctor
will be here soon, I suppose, to shake his
head and write recipes. Humbug, my boys!
Patients can do as much for themselves, I
believe, as doctors can do for them: they're
all in the dark together—the only difference
is that the patients grope in English,
and the doctors grope in Latin!"

"You are too sceptical, sir," said John
Meade.

"Pooh!" said Mr. Collett. "Let us
change the subject. I want your advice,
Peter and John, on a matter that concerns
your interests. I'm going to make my will