to the kitchen to cheer their spirits. When
I had drawn a chair to the fire, and stirred
up the coals with my foot, I can assure you
I felt very comfortable. I felt more comfortable
when there were some "things" brought
in and set on the table. I sat that way for
some hours, until it got quite dark outside—
it might be then about six o'clock. I was
thinking over what kind of a man the late
Welbore Craven, Esquire, was, when the door
was opened, and the Major came in with a
haughty-looking lady on his arm, all in black.

"I have been consulting with Mrs. Craven,"
he said, "about this matter, and we are both
agreed that the funeral must go on to-morrow."

"Sir," I answered, "I can say no more
than what I have said already. I showed
you to-day that it was utterly impossible."

"Mr. Songster," said the lady, with a soft,
gentle voice—how she picked up my name, I
can't say—"Mr. Songster, since you see we
are so much interested in this matter, I am
sure you will make every exertion for us.
Do try, and we shall be so grateful to you."

"What can I do?" I said, at my wits'
end from their persecution; "I am not
hindering the business; but, as I told the
Major, there is nothing ready."

"Never mind that, Mr. Songster," says
she; "you will contrive some plan. Do
please, and we shall never forget it to you."

I saw she was trying to come round me—
pale lady with soft voice—so I said bluffly:

"It's no use talking: you can't make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear: it never was, and it
never will be done; take my advice, and
wait, and do it decently, and don't shame the
family before the neighbours."

I heard the Major whispering to her that
there was sense in what I said, and that they
had better wait; but, she turned round on
him with such a wicked look—ah! The late
Welbore Craven Esquire must have had a
weary life of it with her!

"Will you let yourself but put off with this
fellow's poor excuses? What is he at?
Make him speak. I won't be trifled with!
I tell you," she said, turning on me, her eyes
like burning coals, "I tell you it shall go on
to-morrow. I say it!"

I am used to be spoken civilly to, and the
word fellow stuck on my throat, so I stood
up to her at once:

"Madam, so long as I do my duty by my
principal, I shall take no heed of bad words
from any lady breathing. He has his instructions
from another, as I have mine from him;
that other being young Mr. Craven, who has
every right to speak here, and to direct here."

I had kept this shot for the last, in case I
should be driven to the wall. It told well.
You never saw people so shut up in your life.

"He is in France," said the Major.

"No, sir, he is not. I saw him last night
myself."

He was trying to keep up Mrs. Craven,
who was quite scared and wandering.

"Let us go, let us go," she said. "I
knew it would be this way. I knew it would.
It is at hand—just at hand—I knew it."

The Major looked quite mystified: indeed,
all along I saw he could not make out what
she would be at. However, they went out
without saying a word more; and I was very
glad to be left in peace.

Well, sir, after that I went about a little—
looking at everything, just to stretch my
limbs—always, however, having an eye to
the late Welbore Craven, Esquire, pursuant to
orders. I thought it best to look to this
myself—especially when I saw they were
so determined—and I did not know what
might come next: so, about eight o'clock, I
made all snug for the night; pulling in a big
chair before the fire, and snugging myself
down comfortably.

I remember sitting that way some two hours
or so, and I amused myself making out the life
of the late Welbore Craven, Esquire, in the
coals. I found his face there,—a quiet, gentle
face, no doubt—with a high forehead and a mild
eye. Bless you, I knew how that face looked
at proud Mrs. Welbore, as well as if I had
lived an age in the house. I'll swear he
was proud of her, and loved her maybe to
the day of his death. It's a queer thing,
that making out faces in the fire!

I found myself thirsty by this time, and
began to think very hard how I should get
at some drink, if it was only plain water.
My friend the butler was asleep in bed,
and had most likely put his port to bed
too. I had no chance in that quarter; and,
was giving myself up for the night to the
torments of a dry throat, when I suddenly
thought of the traps and pigeon-holes round
the room. I was soon on a chair,
rummaging right and left; and I think you
never came across such queer little places in
your life. Such little hall-doors, and doors
inside them again, and drawers and catches,
you never saw. Such a sight of bottles, too,
inside; but none of the sort I wanted.
There were plenty of long-necked French-
men —champagne and the like—all empty
though. There were bottles of olive-oil and
fish-sauce, and medicine; but if I was in
the Sandy Desert, I could not bring myself
to moisten my clay with olive-oil or fish-
sauce. So I rummaged on, just for the
curiosity of the thing.

I was dragging a long time at what looked
like a press-door, more out of obstinacy than
anything else, when the bottom came out in
my hand, and, strange enough, a little
pigeon-hole opened a mile away over my
head—just near the ceiling. Here was a
start! I set chairs upon each other, and
climbed up. I found no end of little drawers
all round—in rows, just like a medicine-chest.
In some there were locks of hair tied with
gold thread, and letters done up with blue
ribbons—love-scribbles, you may be sure;
but in the last one of all, just at the bottom,