hope not. Say no more, sir. I would, sir, I could see you gay again.”

“What do you mean, ma’am?” blustered Bounderby.

“Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, “there was wont to be an elasticity in you which I sadly miss. Be buoyant, sir!”

Mr. Bounderby, under the influence of this difficult adjuration, backed up by her compassionate eye, could only scratch his head in a feeble and ridiculous manner, and afterwards assert himself at a distance by being heard to bully the small fry of business all the morning.

“Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit that afternoon, when her patron was gone on his journey, and the Bank was closing, “present my compliments to young Mr. Thomas, and ask him if he would step up and partake of a lamb chop and walnut ketchup, with a glass of India ale?” Young Mr. Thomas, being usually ready for anything in that way, returned a gracious answer, and followed on its heels. “Mr. Thomas,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “these plain viands being on table, I thought you might be tempted.”

“Thank’ee, Mrs. Sparsit,” said the whelp. And gloomily fell to.

“How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?” asked Mrs. Sparsit.

“Oh, he’s all right,” said Tom.

“Where may he be at present?” Mrs. Sparsit asked in a light conversational manner, after mentally devoting the whelp to the Furies for being so uncommunicative.

“He is shooting in Yorkshire,” said Tom. “Sent Loo a basket half as big as a church yesterday.”

“The kind of gentleman, now,” said Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly, “whom one might wager to be a good shot!”

“Crack,” said Tom.

He had long been a down-looking young fellow, but this characteristic had so increased of late that he never raised his eyes to any face for three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsit consequently had ample means of watching his looks, if she were so inclined.

“Mr. Harthouse is a great favourite of mine,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “as indeed he is of most people. May we expect to see him again shortly, Mr. Tom?”

“Why, I expect to see him tomorrow,” returned the whelp.

“Good news!” cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly.

“I have got an appointment with him to meet him in the evening at the station here,” said Tom, “and I am going to dine with him afterwards, I believe. He is not coming down to the country house for a week or so, being due somewhere else. At least, he says so; but I shouldn’t wonder if he was to stop here over Sunday, and stray that way.”

“Which reminds me!” said Mrs. Sparsit. “Would you remember a message to your sister, Mr. Tom, if I was to charge you with one?”

“Well, I’ll try,” returned the reluctant whelp, “if it isn’t a long un.”

“It is merely my respectful compliments,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “and I fear I may not trouble her with my society this week, being still a little nervous, and better perhaps by my poor self.”

“Oh! if that’s all,” observed Tom, “it wouldn’t much matter even if I was to forget it, for Loo’s not likely to think of you unless she sees you.”

Having paid for his entertainment with this agreeable compliment, he relapsed into a hangdog silence until there was no more India ale left, when he said, “Well, Mrs. Sparsit, I must be off!” and went off.

Next day, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit sat at her window all day long looking at the customers coming in and out, watching the postmen, keeping an eye on the general traffic of the street, revolving many things in her mind, but, above all, keeping her attention on her staircase. The evening come, she put on her bonnet and shawl and went quietly out, having her reasons for hovering in a furtive way about the station by which a passenger would arrive from Yorkshire, and for preferring to peep into it round pillars and corners, and out of ladies’ waiting-room windows, to appearing in its precincts openly.

Tom was in attendance, and loitered about until the expected train came in. It brought no Mr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the crowd had dispersed and the bustle was over and then referred to a posted list of trains and took counsel with porters. That done, he strolled away idly, stopping in the street and looking up it and down it, and lifting his hat off and putting it on again, and yawning and stretching himself, and exhibiting all the symptoms of mortal weariness to be expected in one who had still to wait until the next train should come in, an hour and forty minutes hence.

“This is a device to