notices put up"-("The deceitful little devil!")— "and now, if you please, I am Mrs. Chacomb, of Chacomb Hall, Chacomb."-("The deuce you are!")

"Chauncey is very good to me. It is all nonsense to say he is mad; he is no more mad than you, and he declares he will prove it." ("The devil he will!")" He is a little flighty at night, and sees faces in the dark-so would any one in this lonely house. He hears voices, which everybody might hear in such a quiet place. Dear Joe, you know that I never could and never did love anybody but you; but when this poor little man kept begging and praying—and you away in London-and offering to make me a lady, a real lady, I thought I could do nothing better than take his offer." ("Nothing better, ma'am, nothing better; and I'm deuced glad of it;" but he spoke with a little bitterness.)

"I do not expect the county ladies" ("Eh? Ho! ho! the county ladies!")-"will call upon me] just yet; but I am going to send a notice of the marriage to the papers, and I can wait. Remember, my dear Joe, for the memory of old times, my husband and I will always be happy

to see you whenever your professional duties will allow you to come.-Always your affectionate cousin,

"JULIA CHACOMB.”

"The cheek of it!" said the doctor. "The confounded impudence and cheek! I send her down to obey my orders, and, by gad, she marries him! And now she thinks to be the mistress of Chacomb, does she? We will see, we will see. Julia, my girl, I've known you in the ballet, and I've known you in the burlesque ; I've known you on the quiet, and I've known you on the rampage; but I never knew you to try such a big game as this before. Never mind, Mrs. Chauncey Chacomb the second, you haven't got over Joseph yet. I shall go down next Saturday and bring this young couple-ho! ho! he's fifty-eight and she's forty, if she's a day -to reason. I shall let them know who is the master of Chacomb. I shall put my foot down. Very well, Julia—very well."

CHAPTER VIII.

ATURDAY morning was an off-day with Dicky, so far as Mr. Lilliecrip was concerned. He was wont to

spend it at the British Museum, in preparation of the articles, paragraphs, and letters which formed his tale of labour for the Weekly Intelligence and the Christian Clerk. He was awakened by the street cries, which in London do duty for the dogs of rural solitudes and the lark of the poets. He rose hastily, for a thought flashed across him in his dreams, piercing the innermost marrow of his soul.

"Good heavens!" he gasped, rushing his toilet, so to speak-" eight o'clock already; and to-morrow is Sunday. Never mind, I may be in time yet."

He did not, as when we saw him last, waste

time in lamenting or apostrophising the deficiencies of his wardrobe. On the contrary, he huddled everything on as fast as possible, reduced his curly and abundant locks to something like smoothness, and hastened downstairs.

At the door of the ancient dame of whom mention has already been made, he met her granddaughter, Miss Ethelreda Vyvyan, commonly known as "Ready Vyvyan" by those who knew her best, and familiar to public eyes and ears in connection with the Royal Hemisphere Theatre, where she took second parts in burlesques: an accomplished young lady; one who had a strong, if not a melodious voice, and who could be trusted to get through a song without absolutely losing sight of time and tune; who could dance passably; who looked charming in "page" costume-she preferred it "full page," she said; and who was pretty enough for the simple costume of the theatrical village maiden with short skirts, silk stockings, and a coquettish hat. But she was happiest in a costume à la Henri Quatre, which displayed more of the figure than womankind in western

Europe have thought necessary since their conversion to Christianity. "Popsy," her grandmother called her; and what her surname really was, or her Christian name either, I am sorry to say, I do not know. She was carrying the breakfast milk upstairs, and looked as fresh and blooming as if she had not come home after a late supper at two o'clock in the morning. Seeing the poet, she set down her milk, and laughed and clapped her hands.

"How are you, Dicky?" she asked, with a familiarity that spoke of old and confirmed friendship. "How are you this morning, old boy? None the worse for last night? Let me look at you: eyelids rather red, cheeks a little, twitchy, tongue a little dry-got a fur upon it, I should think. You've been going it, Dicky Carew. Coming in to pay poor old granny her money? Not you."

"The fact is," said Dicky, "that I am going into the City to draw my dividends."

"Walker!" was the vulgar rejoinder of this young lady. She accompanied it with a gesture which we may briefly indicate by saying that it betrayed a complete mastery over her limbs,

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