too, I confess it. But time, time will show you the truth of what I said." "Which you had better not repeat. But please attend now to those letters." "Certainly; and would you mind dropping in to my lodging this evening, No. 2, round the corner? I want to say a few things to you. You behaved very kind to me yesterday; I shan't forget how readily you lent me that halfcrown." "O, nonsense!" "You're genuine, Mr. Fielding. No adulteration about you. I like you, and you must come. You shall see my Bessy. Good as gold, Sir-gold tried in the furnace, too." marked with deep melancholy that he constantly strove to conceal. He was a humorist in his language, but the smiles he provoked in others seldom brightened his own, though, indeed, he could laugh outrageously. He had a slovenly aspect. His hair was long, and decidedly out of condition. His tailor might have been an old clothesman, so ill the garments fitted, and so worn were they. George Fielding had the title, much to his own surprise, of Secretary of the Silver Mining Company, his duties being to explain to every one whom his employer's clever circulars and advertisements brought thither (clever indeed they were) the nature of the under Mickle shook him warmly by the hand -so warmly that Fielding's heart was strongly moved. He felt compassion for the clerk, who had evidently gone wrong in some way, and was suffering in consequence. The strangest thing was, that he appeared to blame Mr. Ferris for his errors, or mistakes, which ever they might be. There was a gathering mystery about the place that very much tantalised George. The clerk was a singular-looking man for his age and position-a young-old looking man, with singular manners. He was tall and thin, and had a visage taking, and to recommend it with all the energy and plausibility he could command, guided by minute instructions from Mr. Ferris. He had also to write a vast number of letters to the same purpose. The accounts of the establishment were in Mickle's charge by day, and locked up by night. George thought he should try and find an opportunity to look into them, and satisfy himself how the affairs of the company stood. He was acute in business; no mere bookworm. He had frequently to make statements for Mr. Ferris, the exact truth of which appeared to him questionable; and he reverenced the truth as much as any man breathing. He had objected twice to comply with his em ployer's instructions, stating plainly that he knew they were not in accordance with fact. "You are Quixotic, my good fellow," said Ferris; "in important enterprises we cannot be over nice. I am more particular than any man alive, but business mustn't stand still." So he silenced George; but finding that the new man was not malleable to his purposes, Mr. Ferris held him at a distance from his confidence, which George perceived, and felt painfully; so that he was far from comfortable. He had fancied sometimes that Mickle knew more than any one of Ferris's private affairs; why, then, the clerk should deem it necessary to listen at a door to private conversations passing in the inner office, puzzled him; nor could he conceive why the man was so agitated and frightened. But, mentally and morally proud, George disdained to make use of an accident to press into privacies which did not immediately concern him. So he told Mickle-at the latter's lodgings (two humble rooms over a cook-shop), in the evening, when the clerk, between whiffs of tobacco and copious draughts of spirits, referred to what had passed in the kitchen at Randal House "I decline explanations, Mickle,” said he; "let the circumstance rest in oblivion; it may, as far as I am concerned, I give you my word. Only, whilst I am there, whatever may be your reasons, never listen again to anything which is not designed for your ear." "I will not." 'Enough." "You do not drink, Mr. Fielding." "No; I was bred in an inn, and I have seen too much of the mischiefs done by intemperance to risk it myself. I seek for higher enjoyments, the feast of reason, and the flow of soul,' you know; none other." He spoke with firmness; when the unhappy clerk laid down his pipe, looked at the secretary in admiration, groaned as one in torture, and, seizing his own glass, dashed the alcoholic contents out of the open window. "Heavens!" he ejaculated, in a choked voice, "had I but been of your mind, what a different creature should I be now!" He shook his head slowly, and tearsyes, large drops,-rolled down his face. George was deeply affected. "I have touched on a painful theme, I see. I had noticed, of course, that you were unfortunately addicted to this weakness." "Lord! Lord!" exclaimed the unhappy clerk, "what I might have been! And see what I am: a lost-lost wretch." Why so? You are in receipt of a good salary, are you not ?" 66 The clerk leaned over the table, on which he rested both his hands. "Mr. Fielding, I will trust you so far as to say that I have done that under the influence of fiery drink which I would now give my right hand to undo." George rose. "You alarm me, Mickle." "All I dare tell you now, Mr. Fielding, is this, and that I will say: Be on your guard against you know whom; take this as it is meant,-friendly to you." It grew dark in Mickle's room, except for the gas-lights shining in from the street, but neither of the two heeded it. They remained long talking; the clerk telling the sad, sad story of his wasted life. The youngest son of a gentleman of fortune, well educated, fallen into low company, bound hand and foot by a passion for drink, cast out from his father's house and disinherited, sunk in the deepest poverty; a tavern keeper who knew Mr. Ferris advised applying to him for employment-a fatal application; why fatal, not to be mentioned;-drink had done it all!" "But if intemperance has done you so much harm, why persist in it ?" "To drown reflection; I drink night and day to conquer my terror of the future. I was tempted to serve him wrongfully by the offer of means to gratify the madness that was consuming me." "Serious charges." "I can substantiate them, Sir; but when I do that I criminate myself. I am in a horrible position, Sir." Two slight taps at the door caught the ear of George. Mickle opened it. A whispering took place, and then the clerk led in a slight female figure, which stood timidly in the half-darkness while the clerk lit a candle; but his hand was so nervous that he had to fling three matches to the floor before he could bring the phosphoric light successfully to the wick of the mould. Then George saw a thin, poorly-clad, delicate-looking girl, with sewing in her hand. "Mrs. Wilkins asked me to inquire if you wanted anything,” she said, in a soft, weak voice. "Sit down, Bessy," said Mickle. She sat down close to the candle, and went on quietly with her stitching, merely saying to the stranger, "Please excuse my work." Mickle whispered hastily to George, "Take care-not a breath of the matter between us." Then, pointing to her with admiration, he exclaimed, "You see her, Mr. Fielding, that's the little girl I told you was good as gold; and so she is." Bessy faintly smiled as she looked up at him; and he came nearer to her, and smoothed her hair, which was twisted up behind with the careless haste of one whose minutes are all wanted twice over to earn the daily bread. But it was a sweet face, George said to himself, that the careless dark hair shaded—a peculiar face-a pathetic face; one that told of toil ill-requited, of privation, of weak health, of a loving nature-faithful and fond to the heart's core. No great intelligence, perhaps; no learning, certainly-not of books or lectures, or governess teaching-Ah, no! No time nor means for any of it had poor Bessy! She had no school, ever. Work, work, from her cradle-work only-that was Bessy's lot. She worked for a slop-shop, as her dead mother had done before her; worked single-handed to maintain her self, at barely eighteen years old, and to eke out the miserable parish allowance of her paralyzed grandmother, who sat, ever moaning over her aches and pains, in the corner of Bessy's single room, second-floor,-rent as much as many warm a country cottager pays for a snug house. How little we estimate the uncomplaining worth of the London industrious poor! They suffer the bitterest hardships, but are generally cheerful and patient, even contented; helping one another with the most touching selfsacrifices; nursing their sick neighbours in their spare moments; tending the dying; lending and giving out of their meagre earnings, guided by the tender, Christian feeling, "Thy necessities are greater than mine." We talk much of the vices of London, but its virtues also are worth consideration. As the population is denser among the toiling poor here than in any other part of England, so are the human sympathies perhaps closer, more prompt, and, we may safely add, more intelligent also. If people are deserted and isolated in London—if they are without help or kindness, it is not among the classes we are speaking of, except they choose to be The benign spirit of the Gospel has permeated, even where its letter is almost unknown. So. The soil is good for missionary efforts of the right stamp, and a few years might work wonders in elevating and purifying this great band of workers, if the rich and educated classes did their duty. One curious phase of the character of London women of the toiling classes is, undoubtedly, their romance. Singular as it may sound, they are decidedly_romantic. They are especially fond of aristocratic dramas and romances. Democracy does not flourish among them. They would not at all approve of the American plan of abolishing titles. Their reading is extensive in the fiction that revels in gilded halls, and velvet saloons, and picture corridors, and robes decorated with jewelry ad libitum. have no objection to one simple flower relieving long dark hair, or to a pretty wreath of roses; but, above all things, a diadem and a coronet they love. No heroine will please who is not a marchioness, countess, or duchess; no lover is worth a sympathetic heart if he be not "my Lord." Even should he or she They fail, at the commencement of the tale or undoubtedly a principal means of civiliza play, to take a rank lofty enough to entitle them to move the sentiments; they must be sure to come out brilliantly in the end, or woe to the author. Bessy Lee was just one of her class in romantic sympathies; and the knowledge, privately communicated, that her fellowlodger, Mickle, was the son of a gentleman (magic name!) had undoubtedly moved her amiable feelings more strongly than she was aware of. She pitied him so much! If he was intemperate, that was all caused by his reduced circumstances by the hard-heartedness of his grand relations. Bessy was sure, if she were rich, she would never let one of her relations want for anything. Such a scholar, too, as Mickle was! She had learned several French phrases from him. And he wrote with ease that curiouslooking German. The landlady of the house had an old piano-a piece of lumber she called it. She put it into Mickle's sitting-room, and he had got an acquaintance to repair the cracked strings, and tune them tolerably; and it was like a fairy dream to poor Bessy to bring her work and hear the clerk perform on this instrument, "Oh! so beautifully!" The unhappy man half forgot his fatal errors when she sat near him, listening so quietly, so entranced; now and then uplifting those large dreamy eyes to thank him with a silent look. It was so delightful to him to have one being look up to him with loving reverence, though, Heaven knows, he felt how little he deserved it. If the London poor are not musical, if they do not greatly excel in this divine art, it is not from any want of original gifts. Far from it. They are the great patrons of all wandering musicians. A street melodist of average voice and expression, who sings the popular songs of the day, finds plenty of encouragement in the by-streets and the back courts. The poorest needlewoman will fling out of window a halfpenny now and then, and listen with all her soul in her face. But there is a sad dearth of musical training for the humbler classes. No one cares to promote this object, though it is tion. The English, say many foreigners, are a hard, rough people, wanting in the refinements and amenities which impart such charms to common life. How long would they be open to such a censure if musical education were promoted as it ought to be? Think of this, ye wealthy and benevolent. Cultivate sweet sounds in humble London homes, and see if softer manners will not follow. Bessy sang, at Mickle's request, for George to hear, "The Banks of Doon," and "Oh no, we never mention her." Her voice was tenderly and sweetly modulated, but by no means forcible; now and then it sank to a very low ebb indeed, and George was rather glad that she did not oblige Mickle with "We met," or "Kate Kearney,” for all his pressing. But her inability to keep up the voice, was infinitely more affecting than any ordinary power of tone would have been. "That will do, Bessy, my girl!" said Mickle. "Now take this little packet of snuff to grandmother, and away with you." She timidly bade "Good night," and went upstairs very happy. "What do you think, Fielding, of a girl supporting herself and half maintaining her grandmother, on shirtmaking, at 2s. 6d. a dozen? True, by Jove! And I only live in hopes that some time or other the rich Jews who are not ashamed to pay such prices may have their premises burnt about their ears; I'd as soon do it as not. It's infamous." "You will hardly make me believe, Mickle, that any woman could live by shirt-making at that price, or that any respectable house of business could pay so barbarously." "No! Ah, you don't know yet how women live in London,-on next to nothing, in thousands of cases. What is Bessy to do? Half a loaf is better than none. If she gives it up, she may have to starve outright. Why, out of every 2s. 6d. for a dozen shirts, she has to buy two pennyworth of cottons and needles. But she may go to work if she likes indoors, at 5s. a week, from eight to eight; that's a splendid alternative; but sixpence better than another house offered her for twelve or thirteen hours a day, in the season only! And when winter comes, she has a bright prospect, indeed. On 2s. or 3s. a week, last winter, she tells me, she had to exist, until a hospital kindly received her to restore her strength. It's awful, how poor women are imposed upon by the London warehouses. White slaves, and no mistake! There's an artificial flower maker in the back room up-stairs; she gets 6d. I dread it. She'll break her heart." a dozen for making the best French flowers, sold at from 1s. to 2s. the spray. Pretty good profit for somebody. Her two children, poor souls, make common English flowers, at three-halfpence a dozen. Yet, for all that I can hear, the bulk of these women are good and true. I swear to you, there does not stand on English ground a better girl than little Bessy, bless her heart." 'Well, certainly," said George, emphatically, "I would not be in your position, take it altogether, for a trifle." "But, since you are so attached to her- " The clerk combed up his straggling hair with his fingers, which gave him a very wild aspect; but it grew wilder when he heard creaking boots ascending the stairs outside. "That's him, by Jove! You must not be seen here. He will suspect something directly. Go in the next room-quick!" But George had no wish to be entan |