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Insurance and other Companies in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, and elsewhere, glad to earn a few dollars by the most repellent, disheartening, and ill-paid toil. For the sake of city life, the attire of a gentleman, and the hope of making a quick fortune, these jostling young gentlemen endure privations, degradations, and shabby discouragements, that react seriously upon morality. Culture has given a keener edge to intellect, and a false idea of gentility demands pecuniary success at any hazard.

There is in the business atmosphere of the United States an electric intensity not found in the most frenzied centres of Europe. The flood of highly educated youngsters, now being thrust into it, must add to the desperate conflict, and young immigrating Britishers must be prepared for difficulties that their elders have not known; there is a combat waiting them far sterner than any waged in tumultuous, competitive Europe. Besides, the major operations of business are no longer in the hands of individuals. Visible or occult gangs control the harvests, the mines, the railways, the manufactures, the politics, and to a certain extent, the journalism of the United States. Against the operations of the confederated lions of trade, the ablest man, single-handed, is as powerless as before a tidal wave. Honesty counts for nothing; prevision is worse than blindness, for combinations of speculators defy all calculations. The 'corner' is now the mode of making great wealth. And wealth is the object of an infinite majority of Americans; the spending of it lavishly the beau ideal of enjoyment.

This makes excitement a necessity of existence. From childhood to age, incessant mental activity must be had; and it is curious to observe that speed of mind is accompanied by great bodily quietude. The lolling, lounging, arm-chair-loving Yankee has long furnished amusement to British athletes and pedestrians. But this corporal laziness is the necessary result of restless mental exertion. Brains have so much to do, that limbs are compelled to be quiescent. To get on' in the United States, mind, not muscle, is the prerequisite. Intending emigrants should ponder this.

thriving cities, where speed is slower, competition feebler, and wages low. Although the standard is so much higher than in England, our immigrants after a period of probation and hardening,' are found equal to all comers. An instance of this will be apropos.

A German master-builder was erecting a block of houses, and his employés were exclusively Germans. Four young English bricklayers applied for work. They were newly arrived, and met with several refusals. At length, two were taken on trial. By the end of the week, the four were engaged; by the end of a fortnight, all the Germans were dismissed, and the Englishmen carried the building to its completion. Their power of work, quickness, and steadiness gave them a marked advantage over the Germans. But their determination 'not to be licked' was the real cause of their triumph. That British characteristic tells prodigiously in favour of the Anglo-American, and makes him facile princeps amid natives and strangers. These young bricklayers told me they never worked so hard in their lives before, and were glad that a crucial test had revealed to them what they could do.' After this breaking-in, they were equal to the highest standard of American labour. One of them soon became an employer, and was making sure tracks for fortune when I last saw him.

What I have said of the building trades applies to all others. Indeed, the higher dexterity, taste, and skill a business requires, the more does the American workman respond to the demand. The plasticity of type to which I have referred is nowhere seen so plainly as in the domain of the useful arts. Germans and Frenchmen have given a finish to American manufactures, that is wanting in our own. Besides, there is a native neatness, the result of a high ideal of excellence. This matter deserves the serious attention of British manufacturers who are losing many markets simply from the clumsiness of their goods. There is rising in the United States a race of artists, designers, and artificers who promise to surpass those of all other nations. The fervour of the climate develops the æsthetic side of man; the clash of millions of eager, inventive minds is producing a standard of excellence that is both novel and exalted; the possibilities of wealth are vastly beyond those of any European state, and the love of the elegant and the beautiful pervades all classes. The inevitable sequence of these conditions must be widespread, all-dominating art. It is seen in the gorgeous public buildings, in the exquisite villas, in the light yet strong furniture, in the beautiful appointments of drawing-rooms and table equipages; while every American lady, yea, though black, is living evidence of an innate taste in dress, that makes the English suffer by contrast. Into every avenue of life this characteristic of taste goes, modifying manners and behaviour, as much as architecture, furniture, dress, ornaments, and tools.

For artisans there are just now excellent prospects. A great impulse of activity prevails; everything is booming' in the most encouraging manner. But British tradesmen must be ready to exchange old methods for new ones, to forget rauch, and to learn much. I have heard bitter repinings from men who were too rigid to yield to American ideas. Such should remain at home. Anglo-Americans have to work harder than any other people in the world. When I as in Cincinnati, bricklayers were earning a pound a day, and the same rate prevails in many ther cities. But the work was far more exhausting than in England. Here a bricklayer is reckoned a good hand if he sets nine hundred bricks per day; a thousand is high water-mark. In the United States, fifteen hundred is the average, and some smart fellows have set two thousand per day. Now, at the outset, most Englishmen find this rapid style simply destruc- The Anglo-American is, however poor, comtive. And there is no doubt that it taxes the pelled to be a gentleman. I was gratified energy of the strong and clever. Yet such is the to note how quickly insular gaucheries and custom of the trade. For the weak and incom- John Bullisms melted away in the solvent petent, it means exclusion from first-class employ- atmosphere. Workmen in England are ment, and banishment to places remote from always careful of personal appearance, though


our young men are becoming so. But in America, after business hours it is impossible to distinguish a man by any external marks of his occupation. Artisans are dressed neatly, stylishly, splendidly, according to individual ideas and income. I have lived in hotels and boarding-houses with working-men whose clothes, deportment, and conversation gave not the least clue to their employments. Good manners are not only expected from all, but are insisted upon. Except in mining regions, where a conglomeration of international rowdies sets up a local code of behaviour, all Americans are urbane. And, by the way, in these mining districts the AngloAmerican is equal to the best or the worst. Some of the greatest reprobates and desperadoes claim Old England as their motherland. Indeed, I could mention instances in point that prove our countrymen to be second to none as wielders of the bowie-knife and revolver. Yet, even in these lawless spots, woman is treated with considerate courtesy. The poorest of the sex claim a chivalrous attention. Rarely are brutalities and outrages inflicted upon women; and when they are, a recent immigrant or a drunken madman is the perpetrator.

Refinement of manners is nowhere more conspicuous than in the treatment of children. Anglo-American boys and girls have indulgences, pleasures, and intimacies with their elders quite unknown to their cousins in the East. I was struck with the extraordinary good conduct of children in school. There is a code of high behaviour ruling teachers and scholars that compares favourably with that of England. It was curious to remark, as I had occasion to do, how soon an immigrant's turbulent, irascible, opinionated boys were subdued to the prevailing behaviour.

In all sections of society, in all employments, in all latitudes, Anglo-Americans show a grit' that wins them position, wealth, and the good opinion of their neighbours. That intractable conservatism which marks them at home, evaporates in the brilliant air of the New World. They become Americanised. But they do not cease to love the old land; and no people are kinder to their visitors. They receive a Britisher with a warmth of hospitality and a depth of courtesy which prove that the old virtues develop with mind and fortune.




oak panelling, but had no gewgaw quarrel with their age, as any modern gilding would have had. There was no new electro'd look on the silver stands and candelabra. The eyes of ornamental Cupids had grown dark; there were streaks of darkness in the Cupids' silver hair; their noses had grown blunt with the chamois leather of generations of butlers. All things wore a look of comfortable age. Sitting here, you were out of all disturbing influence, unless you were outside it in the literal sense of carrying it within you. There is no great comfort in new things. A new chair, stiff and shiny, sets one's teeth on edge with the creak of its leather, yet untrained to yield. Your old chair has found out all your angles, and is ready to adapt itself to a stranger's. Old shoes, old coats, old wines, old friends, what comfort there is in them! In the society of an old friend, you can lounge as you do in an old jacket; you have no fear of taking the gloss off him, or it. There is a sense of comfort, of long human proprietorship, which has left even it not unmarked with human interest, in old furniture. Not as it stares forlornly at you from the dim dustiness of half-fictitious years in Wardour Street shop windows; but as it stands where it has been wont to stand, in any old chamber familiar to a family. The chairs in which generations of the same house have sat, the table at which generations have dined, the solid square decanters out of which great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers poured mirth and jollity—what are new things beside them?

Gerard and his father sat here, well content in the after-dinner hour, the old man sipping his glass of port, the younger his glass of claret.

'And so,' said the senior, balancing the nutcrackers, and looking across the table with a humorous air, 'you won't come up to London?'

If you wish it, I will come,' answered Gerard. 'Otherwise, I don't care for it.'

'Oh,' hummed the old boy, not unmelodiously, ""There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream.”' In his youth he had had a famous tenor voice, which, though now a trifle husky, had still something of its old mellow flavour left in it.

Gerard looked up at him, and laughed affectionately. 'Well, dad,' he said, 'why not? You had your day.' There was a little blush upon his face, which was not unbecoming, going as it did with such a friendly candour in his eyes.

'Yes,' the old boy answered, for good port disposes the heart to sentiment; 'I have had my day. I thank God for a tranquil afternoon, and the promise of a quiet evening. They were both silent for a minute or two, and then he said

CHAPTER XVI.-'THIS IS MY FUTURE PARTNER, in his usual tone: 'I'm afraid I must drag you


THE dining-room at Lumby Hall was a place furnished for solid comfort's sake and with no regard to show. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor were all of oak. Dark maroon hangings kept a certain air about the chamber, as though to say that eating was not a busy matter here, but a thing to be done in shaded peace, and at what leisure the diner would. The oak floor, save for an edging some foot and a half in width, was deeply carpeted. The pictures on the walls were dull with time. The dim gold of their heavy frames relieved the sombre shades of the

away, my lad, but only for a day. I've been talking things over with your mother; and since you are going to get married, and can't very well do that on your allowance, I have thought of taking you over into the House, and transferring to you, say, half my share in it. You need never meddle with the business. I would rather you didn't meddle with it. So long as Garling lasts at least, it couldn't be in better hands. When I am gone, except for Milly's share, you will have everything; but I shan't follow King Lear's pattern even with so good a lad as you are. So I shall run up to town to-morrow, have a talk with

Мау 6, 1882.1

Garling-see exactly how I stand-and then go to Bryan, and get him to draw up the necessary papers; and then you must beg away for a day, and come up for the completion of the business.' Gerard would have thanked him; but he went on: 'And now, I've had wine enough, and I'm going up-stairs. Are you coming?' They rose together and left the room arm-in-arm. "This is my future partner, ladies,' said Lumby senior, entering the drawing-room. 'We must have new blood in the business.'

Mrs Lumby rose and kissed her son, a little tremulously. They were a most united household, and had great love for each other. The coming change had cast a sort of tender shadow on them all. Gerard's marriage would bring about their first real parting.

In the morning, Lumby père, in highest spirits, started for London. It is fine to see a mellowhearted man living over the morning of his days again in the knowledge of his son's felicities; and old Lumby was a pleasant sight. Snowy whiskers; beaming British countenance, handSmer by far in its well-preserved beginning of age than it had ever been in youth; ancient satin stock, voluminous, with shining buckle behind; white high collar, meeting the silver of his whiskers; hat broad-brimmed, and not too glossy; figure, clad in dull broadcloth, not too potly, but square and solid-the beau idéal of a country gentleman. Arrived in London, he drove to one of those city hostels, once numerous, bat disappearing now, if the last of them has not already gone, where the solid mahogany tables and sideboards looked liquid with the polish of a century; where the Butler had known the fathers of all but the most ancient guests, and remembered the room you slept in when you first came up to London; where the table linen was all of the finest, the whitest, and the costliest, and in whose cellars, port elbow deep in sawdust slept, as old as Waterloo.' Most people like to be considered somebody, and the very Boots in this ancient hostel knew the House of Lumby and Lumby, and reverenced its head. He would have been a mere unit in a crowd at the Langham, and even there the port could have been no better. When, after luncheon, he walked down to the offices of the firm, the old servitor at the door capped him with a smile; the elder clerks bowed gravely; the younger, with a sense of awe, bent lower at their figures, and sent their quills across the paper with increased assiduity of aspect; and the old gentleman came, in short, like a little monarch of feudal times to his own. His heart was glad in his only son, and he was humbly grateful that it was in his power to lift him bove all little worldly anxieties, and set him the way to happiness. In the fullness of his heart, he stopped to speak to the oldest of the clerks, who had known him when he was a lad, and had gray whiskers when his father had first inducted him into the honour of a share in the firm.

It is like old times to see you here, sir,' said the honoured clerk.

Ah!' said Mr Lumby, 'it is like old times to be here.-Where is Mr Garling?'

He is out at present, sir,' said the clerk; 'we expect him to return at once.'

Mr Gerard is coming into the firm,' said Mr

Lumby with genial pride. These landmarks in life show us how old we are growing-eh, Johnson?'


"They do indeed, sir,' said the ancient clerk, flattered to be the first to hear the news. remember your coming, very well, sir. You were Mr Gerard then.'

'You have spent a pretty good slice of your life here, Johnson, eh?"

'You may say that, sir,' said the old clerk, with a tremulous quaver in his old voice. Fifty years to-day, sir!'

'Nonsense!' cried Mr Lumby.

Fifty years to-day!' the old clerk repeated. Half a century, sir. I came here on my fifteenth birthday, and I am sixty-five to-day.'

'Happy returns!' said the head of the firm, offering his hand, which the old man took gratefully. 'Happy returns! Will you come and dine with me to-night, if you have no other engagement?'

I shall be honoured, sir,' the old clerk answered.

We have new-fangled ways now. Perhaps they are better than the old; but the affectionate veneration of the ancient servitor is rarely now to be seen in these fast-rolling days.

'Shall we say six o'clock ?-Very well. We'll have a talk over old times, eh? You won't forget?' The idea of his forgetting! Mr Lumby went up-stairs, and walked into his own room, where he rang for the Times, and sat down to wait for Garling. It was a square little room, hung on three sides with maps, and crowded with one big table and two heavy chairs. One side of it was of corrugated glass and wooden framework, and in this was a sliding door. Beyond this thin partition was Garling's room. Mr Lumby read his Times, and waited, with a comfortable heart.


Hiram Search had had some reason to think the world a hardish patch to hoe, to copy the figurative locution of his native land. It had never been easy since he could remember, and of late years it had been full of struggles, which were mostly failures, to make both ends meet. But it is not until a man has tasted happiness that he can appreciate the full flavour of misery. Happily, the reverse also holds good, and a man can find the finer flavours of happiness when misery has cleansed his palate. For a little space, Hiram, like his betters, had been happy, and now came trouble, all the more troublous, as it always has been, for coming on smooth times. The daily crust must somehow be earned, and Hiram was away early and home late, though Mary sat crying at home, awaiting the funeral of her mother. Her father redeemed his promise, and took the funeral charges on himself. It was a poor and simple show, and no mourner followed the plain coffin. Garling paid for it, such as it was, and gave Mary a five-pound note.

"You will hold yourself in readiness for me,' he said; and I shall come for you in a day or two. I must make arrangements to receive you.' He gave her an arctic kiss, and went his way; and she, feeling quite desolate, strayed about the

empty house, and longed for Hiram's protecting presence. It was midnight when he came.

'We can't go on in this way, my darlin',' he told her. You must give me the right to protect you. "Taint provident, I know; but there air some situations where it's wise to be improvident, an' this is one of 'em. We shall have to be careful an' savin'; but we have both had practice at that; an' Í fancy I can allays find us in a roof an' vittles.'

'Not yet,' she pleaded tearfully; 'I couldn't marry so soon after mother's death."

'We must find you cheerful lodgin's,' said Hiram; an' I must begin to turn round pretty sharp, an' look for some other kind o' labour, an' when I've got it, we must be married as soon as possible. Taint to be thought on, as I should leave you alone in the world a minute longer 'n I can help.'

'But Hiram,' she said timidly, clinging to him-my father?'

'Wall,' said Hiram, looking on a sudden as hard and as keen as a razor, 'what about him?'

'He is coming to take me away,' she answered. 'Is he?' said Hiram. 'Air you goin' with him?-No, my blossom. I don't want to speak any harm of him; but he's got no claim over you or your doin's-none. His noo-born yearnin's 'I ha' to wait, I fancy. He choked 'em down, it seems, for nigh on a score o' years, an' now he can jest keep on chokin' 'em for my convenience.'

'He is coming to take me away with him,' she said.

Hiram treated this lightly. Don't go with him,' he answered, and thought that question settled. Then he kissed her tenderly, and went up to bed, but not to sleep. How to make a living? Such a living as would leave some margin over bare necessity, something, not luxury, but comfort, for his little girl? He could make nothing of the problem yet, and the schemes he devised had all some flaw in them.

The afternoon of next day, being Saturday, brought Garling back again. I am here,' he said, to take you home.'-She shrank from him.'Are you ready?'

'No,' she answered, in fear of him.

He sat down, saying coldly, with an air of reproof, that he would wait until she had finished her preparations.

'But,' she said, scarcely knowing how she found courage enough to say it, 'I am not going.'

'You are in error,' he answered drily. ready at once, if you please.'


With a sort of desperation, such as a mouse might feel if in extremity it found the heart to face a terrier, she said again: 'I am not going. I have promised not to go.'

You have promised? Whom have you promised?' he asked, looking darkly at her from beneath his brows.

'I have promised not to go,' she repeated with hysteric courage.

'You are of course aware,' he said coldly, 'that I, as your father, have complete control over you until you come of age. You are not yet twenty, and my control will continue for at least fifteen months. I promised your mother that I would exercise it, and I will.'

'Why did you leave us?' she panted. 'Why should I trust you to be good to me? I will not go.'

"Your mother,' he responded, coldly as ever, 'could have told you why I left you. I am a man, and cannot speak scandal of the dead.'

'You speak scandal,' she panted back again, in saying that you cannot speak it. I won't believe it-I don't believe it. My mother was a good woman, and you left her-you left her cruelly. I will not go with you.'

He had cared little enough to take her; but scoundrel as he was, he had not had the heart to refuse her mother's prayer; and though he had striven to beat the feeling down, he had it in his mind that there was some terror in wait for him if he should break his promise. But though he came reluctantly enough, the girl's opposition decided him as firmly as though her society were a necessity of life to him. Her reiterated refusal spurred his halting purpose. It was years since anybody had disputed an order of his, and the denial stirred his blood pleasantly.


'It is not a matter,' he said calmly, 'in which you can exercise a choice. I order, and you must obey.' He kept his eyes upon her until hers sank before them. He knew the virtue of that stony glance of old. It had helped to break her mother's spirit, and to make her the creature of his will. I wish to treat you kindly,' he went on; 'but I shall insist upon obedience, instant and complete. My method is decisive in all matters. I give you ten minutes in which to make ready. If you are not ready in that time, you will go as you are.'

'I will not go,' she protested wildly.

'You do not understand. Permit me to explain. I have a legal right over you. The first policeman in the street will see you into my cab at my order.'

What was she to do? She knew no better. 'What have I ever done to you?' she cried. 'I have lived by my own earnings, and I can do so still. You were cruel to my mother, and you broke her heart, and now'.

And now,' he said, 'time flies. Obey me. Not a word, at your peril.'

Cowed by the brutal and contemptuous tone, and not able to guess how far his rights might stretch, or how far he would carry them, she left the room, and blinded with tears, mounted the staircase. Suddenly, as she stood disconsolate in her chamber, shaken with her own weeping, she clasped her hands at a thought, and falling on her knees, drew, from a shabby papered box which held all her belongings, a sheet of paper and a pencil: 'DEAR HIRAM,' she wrote-My father is here. I am obliged to go. Pray, oh, pray find me. Live here, and I will send you my address; but he will watch me.-MARY.'

She crept on tiptoe to Hiram's room, and pinned the paper to his pillow, and then crept back again. Ah, there was hope! Hiram was clever, and brave, and strong. He would find her, and deliver her. She could surely manage to convey to him the news of her whereabouts and he would find her, though the cruel father buried her underground. She knew nothing of the world; but why was she a woman, but to know that it would be wisest now to play at

resignation? She packed with trembling fingers, in haste, as though every hurried motion brought Hiram and her rescue nearer. When she descended, her father sat with his watch in

his hand.

'You are ready? Where is your luggage?' She told him; and he called in the driver of the cab which stood before the door, and ordered him to bring it down. 'Come,' he said to his daughter, with cold discourtesy; 'get in first.' She passed the threshold; and he, having dropped the hasp which held back the main lock, followed, and they were driven away.

When Hiram returned that night at his usual hour, the door was locked against him. But he, being a man of expedients, and unwilling to disturb Mary, dropped over into the area, and entered by the kitchen door, supposing that the hasp had fallen by accident. There was nothing to warn him of his sweetheart's disappearance, except that his candle was not in its usual place upon its ledge in the narrow hall; but he disregarded that, and crept silently up-stairs. He struck a light in his own room, and glancing round it, saw the paper on his pillow. By the flame of the match, he read Dear Hiram,' and the name by which the note was signed. Before he could master a word beyond this, his frail light went out. He had no other; and in his anxiety to read the missive, he crept quietly down-stairs, not guessing even yet that he was alone in the house, and that the jewel which made it like a casket to his mind, had been stolen away. The night was gusty, and the wind in sudden bursts moaned up and down the streets like a houseless wanderer, uncertain where to go. He could find no light in the kitchen; but remembering how he had entered, and hearing how the wind shook the thin latch, he shot the bolt; and mounting the stairs as noiselessly as a ghost, he opened the front door, and leaving it ajar, went on tiptoe to the nearest street lamp, and there read the letter. Standing amazed and uncertain, with a chill sense of dismay upon him, he heard a sudden clap, which sounded like the explosion of a small cannon, and the wind came hurrying by with a hoarse rejoicing murmur. He darted back to the door, and found it closed. The house was locked against him.

Hiram had to untie-he saw Mary, caught her glance, and exchanged a signal with her. But he could not leave his post; and though he passed the house again twice before the daylight faded, he saw her no more. On the morrow, he secured a substitute to perform his duties, but was informed by a superior official that if this kind of thing went on, he would be dismissed.

"If that's so,' said Hiram, 'I shall be sorry; but it is as maybe.' It was but a poor way of earning a living, after all, and he was every day more anxious to break from it. Perhaps, if he could once be bold enough to leave it, he would pitch upon something better. He rode up to the house, dropped from the omnibus, and rang the bell. After some delay, Garling himself responded to the summons. He was dressed for the streets; and after one keen glance at Hiram, he came out, closed the door behind him, and walked eastward, as calmly as though his visitor had been invisible. Hiram followed; and at the touch of a finger on his shoulder, Garling stopped and faced about.

'What do you want?' he demanded.
'A word with you,' said Hiram in reply.

'It was you,' thought Garling in his secret mind, to whom she gave the promise not to go.' But he only said aloud: 'Speak your word;' and turned upon his heel again, leaving Hiram to follow. If he hoped to shake off the intruder, he was mistaken; the unwelcome hand was again upon his shoulder, so firmly this time as to bring him to a stand-still.

'I want to see Miss Martial,' said Hiram. 'Remove your hand, sir,' returned Garling coldly.-Hiram for sole answer moved him a little to and fro, as though to hint his own preparedness to shake a favourable answer out of him.— Officer!' said Garling. A policeman paused in passing. "This person annoys me.' It was so icily done, with a self-possession so perfect, that for a second Hiram was confounded, and he permitted Garling to withdraw himself and walk on. His perplexity lasted for a second only, and he followed at an easy pace, satisfied for the present to allow the cashier a start of ten or à dozen yards. Garling, looking not to right or left, went calmly on, with his hands clasped behind him, as his habit was, and Hiram followed him. Garling, with his wry forbidding smile bent downwards, surrendered his visitor as vanquished, and betook himself to thoughts of other things.

This small disaster affected him curiously. It was like a bad omen; and he stood before the closed and deserted house like one whom the whole world had cast out. Shaking off his dejec- 'Where you go, I go,' said Hiram quietly tion, he walked, slowly at first, but more and within himself. I'll have somethin' out of you more briskly as his thoughts shaped themselves, afore I've done, as sure as water's wet.' Threadand the mental way grew clear before him, to ing in and out among the passengers, he pursued a coffee-house he knew; and paying his sixpence the figure in front, and never took his eyes from for a bed, retired, and in spite of trouble and it. Garling moved aside for nobody, but walked anxiety, slept fairly. He was astir betimes in slowly, as though in green meadows, with not the morning; and having secured a half-sheet a soul in view, and everybody made way for him of note-paper and a few wafers, he wrote, 'Letters-which is the triumph of your impassive and next door at No. 97,' and walking to the house, unyielding men. Along Fleet Street, up Ludgate fastened that legend over the letter-slip. Then Hill, through St Paul's Churchyard, Hiram folcame the routine of the day. Every time the lowed, and by this time treading pretty close on omnibus passed the house in Fleet Street in which Garling's heels, pursued him into quiet Gresham were situated the chambers of that Mr Martial Street. to whom Hiram had once carried a message, the conductor mounted to the roof of his vehicle and stood there, scanning the windows eagerly. That afternoon-so simple seemed the knot which

'Mr Garling,' said a man in passing.
'Yes,' said Garling, walking on.

The man turned and walked with him. 'The

Emerald Isle sails this evening; but the whole

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