Biddy, and not entered on our books. She
never asked for trust.

This kind of intercourse had gone on
between us for about a month, when one morning
Miss Bridget seemed unusually thoughtful.
The void in her heart ached, she said,
more than ever. "And, Mr. Speckles, I
don't think you understand my case." She
me a look straight into my eyes that
puzzled me.

"Pardon me, Miss Bridget, I will change
your lozenges." I looked confused.

She said, "Speak out, if you have anything
upon your mind."

"I have, indeed, a serious question, that
has long agitated me to the depths of my
soul, and I think it is near solution."

"Ask it of me," she said.

"I am afraid," I stammered. "To do so
would be impertinent."

"I promise," she replied, "to take it in
good part, whatever it may be. Ask me
your question."

"Well," I said; "it is this. Why are
there always three holes in a boiled potato?"

She bit her lip, and replied, quietly:
"Because the cook progs them in the saucepan
with a three-pronged fork. What else
have you to ask?"

For the first time in my life I looked at her
with admiration. The happiness of the
suggestion pleased me. It was indeed far-
fetched and improbable. Forks have no
place in Epistemology, or the Theory of
Knowing. Object plus subject, or matter
mecum, is the substantial in cognition. The
cook knows by matter mecum when she has
boiled her potato; not by help of a three-
pronged fork. Nevertheless, I was much
struck by the elaborate ingenuity of Miss
Bridget's reply; and, for the first time, my
eye dwelt upon her with admiration.

"O Mr. Speckles!" she said again, looking
straight at the red bottle, "how often I think
of those beautiful lines in the poem which
you generously suffered me to keep:

          To be is not to be. What is to have
          But not to have? A hollow mockery
          Is man's best prize. O void,
          That never will be filled, O vacancy,
          Come let me marry thee, since so must be,
          And must be must.

But let me be silent. Mr. Speckles, do you
understand my case?"

She gave me another of those looks, and
the truth flashed upon me. Void—marry:
if she had proposed for me in form I could
not have understood her better.

From that hour we got on rapidly. I
made love as I could, and my suit prospered.
Miss Biddy made no effort to conceal her
visits from my uncle. Uncle Badham
smiled upon her when they met; but it was
certain that her father would not smile on
me. It was, for that reason, agreed upon
between us that we should elope to France,
and there be married. I was to hire a post-
chaise to carry us to Dover. On a certain
day, when her father, she said, would be out,
the milk-maids and cow-keepers all being in
her confidence, the carriage might call boldly
at her house to take her up, and then drive
on. At the foot of Rochester Bridge I was
to be in waiting, and there to mount the
box, it being further understood that I was
to respect her feelings before our marriage
by riding outside during all coach journeys.

On the appointed day, at the appointed
place and time, I was in waiting; a post-
chaise and four approached the bridge. It
was ours. It stopped. I only glanced in at
the window to where Biddy sat, in the same
leghorn bonnet and stiff gown of brocaded
silk that I had so often seen her wear. I
murmured "Bless you!" and leapt upon the
box seat; the postboys gave me a good-
humoured grin of recognition, and drove on.
Before we had gone far, a heavy rain set in;
but, as I had promised faithfully to ride
outside, I kept my seat. In good time—for we
drove at a tremendous pace—we arrived at
Canterbury, where we were to dine. Our
smoking horses were at rest before the
principal hotel; waiters ran in and out; and,
as the rain still fell in torrents, I shouted
lustily for an umbrella as I leapt down, to
hand my lovely prize into the inn. Landlord
and waiters stood in file to receive her; but
she seemed to be asleep. I touched her to
awaken her. Horrible to relate, she
collapsed. Nothing was there but her empty
gown of that abominable silk, stiff as a board,
that has now happily gone out of fashion.
The gown had been seated in the coach, and
Biddy's bonnet had been pinned to the
coach-lining without any head in it at all.

I was befooled, deluded, made the victim of
a hollow treachery. The postboys knew it—
landlord and waiters knew it. Little boys
were collecting. I dashed through them,
leaving the whole nightmare behind me. In
ten minutes I had reached the fields outside
the town. I began to think. I had in my
pocket enough money to carry me to France;
but, failing my heiress, what should I do
there? At Rochester there was my uncle,
party to the plot against me—of that I felt
sure: kindly, no doubt; but could I face
him? Could I face the boys of Rochester,
after eloping in a post-chaise and four, with
Biddy Milcan's green brocaded gown?

For some days I wandered restlessly
among small towns and villages, uncertain
whether to return to Rochester or to go abroad.
The next number of the Kentish Tally-ho
decided me. Therein was contained a heartless
paragraph to this effect: "Elopement
Extraordinary. We understand that a
romantic townsman, Mr. Bad—m Spec—s, who
made, we think, an exceedingly bad spec on
the occasion, eloped on Thursday last in a
post-chaise and four, with a green silk
brocaded gown and leghorn bonnet, lately in the
service of our lovely and fascinating