"Aha! " says the landlord, with an air of
relief. " I understand now. Poor old chap!
He was only dreaming his old dream over
again. There's the queerest story—of a dreadful
kind, too, mind you—connected with him
and his dream, that ever was told."

I entreat the landlord to tell me the story
After a little hesitation, he complies with my
request.

Some years ago, there lived in the suburbs
of a large sea-port town, on the west coast of
England, a man in humble circumstances, by
name Isaac Scatchard. His means of subsistence
were derived from any employment that
he could get, as an ostler; and, occasionally,
when times went well with him, from
temporary engagements in service, as stable-
helper in private houses. Though a faithful,
steady, and honest man, he got on badly in
his calling. His ill-luck was proverbial
among his neighbours. He was always
missing good opportunities, by no fault of
his own; and always living longest in
service with amiable people who were not
punctual payers of wages. " Unlucky Isaac"
was his nickname in his own neighbourhood
—and no one could say that he did not
richly deserve it.

With far more than one man's fair share
of adversity to endure, Isaac had but one
consolation to support him—and that was of the
dreariest and most negative kind. He had
no wife and children to increase his anxieties
and add to the bitterness of his various
failures in life. It might have been from
mere insensibility, or it might have been
from generous unwillingness to involve
another in his own unlucky destiny—but
the fact undoubtedly was, that he arrived
at the middle term of life without marrying;
and, what is much more remarkable, without
once exposing himself, from eighteen to
eight and thirty, to the genial imputation of
ever having had a sweetheart. When he was
out of service, he lived alone with his widowed
mother. Mrs. Scatchard was a woman
above the average in her lowly station, as
to capacities and manners. She had seen
better days, as the phrase is; but she never
referred to them in the presence of curious
visitors; and, though perfectly polite to
every one who approached her, never
cultivated any intimacies among her neighbours.
She contrived to provide, hardly enough,
for her simple wants, by doing rough work
for the tailors; and always managed to
keep a decent home for her son to return
to, whenever his ill-luck drove him out helpless
into the world.

One bleak autumn, when Isaac was getting on
fast towards forty, and when he was, as usual,
out of place, through no fault of his own, he
set forth from his mother's cottage on a long
walk inland to a gentleman's seat, where he
had heard that a stable-helper was required.
It wanted then but two days of his birthday;
and Mrs. Scatchard, with her usual fondness,
made him promise, before he started,
that he would be back in time to keep that
anniversary with her, in as festive a way as
their poor means would allow. It was easy
for him to comply with this request, even
supposing he slept a night each way on the
road. He was to start from home on Monday
morning; and, whether he got the new
place or not, he was to be back for his birthday
dinner on Wednesday at two o'clock.

Arriving at his destination too late on the
Monday night to make application for the
stable-helper's place, he slept at the village-
inn, and, in good time on the Tuesday morning,
presented himself at the gentleman's house,
to fill the vacant situation. Here, again, his
ill-luck pursued him as inexorably as ever.
The excellent written testimonials, as to
character, which he was able to produce, availed
him nothing; his long walk had been taken
in vain—only the day before, the stable-
helper's place had been given to another
man.

Isaac accepted this new disappointment
resignedly, and as a matter of course.
Naturally slow in capacity, he had the bluntness
of sensibility and phlegmatic patience of
disposition which frequently distinguish
men with sluggishly-working mental
powers. He thanked the gentleman's
steward, with his usual quiet civility, for
granting him an interview, and took his
departure with no appearance of unusual
depression in his face or manner. Before
starting on his homeward walk, he made some
inquiries at the inn, and ascertained that he
might save a few miles, on his return, by
following a new road. Furnished with full
instructions, several times repeated, as to the
various turnings he was to take, he set forth
for his homeward journey, and walked on all
day with only one stoppage for bread and
cheese. Just as it was getting towards dark,
the rain came on and the wind began to rise;
and he found himself, to make matters worse,
in a part of the country with which he was
entirely unacquainted, though he knew
himself to be some fifteen miles from home. The
first house he found to inquire at was a lonely
road-side inn, standing on the outskirts of a
thick wood. Solitary as the place looked, it
was welcome to a lost man who was also
hungry, thirsty, footsore, and wet. The land-
lord was a civil, respectable-looking man; and
the price he asked for a bed was reasonable
enough. Isaac, therefore, decided on stopping
comfortably at the inn for that night.

He was constitutionally a temperate man.
His supper simply consisted of two rashers of
bacon, a slice of home-made bread, and a pint of
ale. He did not go to bed immediately after this
moderate meal, but sat up with the landlord
talking about his bad prospects and his long
run of ill-luck, and diverging from these
topics to the subject of horse-flesh and racing.
Nothing was said either by himself, his host,