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character. She had inherited none of her father's placidity or her mother's indolence. Whence came her quick temper, her strength of affection, her shrewd sense, yet her deep poetry of feeling, who shall say? or why, instead of her father's blue eyes and light hair, and her mother's grey eyes and hair of no color at all, she had those dark, lustrous, liquid orbs full of passion and of intellect, and those tresses only a few shades removed from black? Thought, feeling, and energy were the characteristics which even a superficial observer might have read in her face. else there was how much of good and noble, how much of perilous and passionate-the progress of our story will develop.

What

A tall and graceful figure, and regular features, with such eyes and hair as we have mentioned, made Jessie a beautiful girl—one that you would turn to look at a second time, wherever you might chance first to see her.

So thought Lorimer as he gazed for some time on his sister after Mr. Bosher had quitted the room. Mrs. Littlegood soon left them alone.

"She will fret to death, I fear," said Lorimer.

"No," said Jessie; "not so, my dear brother. Her disposition is too calm and equable for you to fear that; it is pent-up grief that kills, not that which gushes forth in copious tears.' "Perhaps so," replied Lorimer.

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He was not much accustomed to think for himself, and was content always to adopt the sentiments of his sister so long as they did not run contrary to his personal wishes.

"Lorimer, do you mean to live here?" asked Jessie, after a pause.

"Eh ?---Well, really, my dear girl, I have not thought about it yet; but, now you mention it, I suppose not. You see I have no rural tastes, except hunting and shooting; and one can only follow those at certain times of the year. So I dare say I shan't live here."

"What do you think of doing?" asked Jessie ; "shall you follow a profession ?"

"I don't think I shall; one does not feel the necessary stimulus when one's wants are provided for; don't you think so?"

"Perhaps," said Jessie, but very doubtingly.

"I want to see life," continued Lorimer. In what way?" asked Jessie, most innocently.

"Pon my soul, I don't know how to answer you," replied Lorimer, after a pause; "what I mean is, that I don't know enough of the world. I want to mix with men of

all classes-knock about a little-don't you understand?"

"The description is not a very precise one, my dear Lorimer," said Jessie, with a half melancholy smile; "but I think I understand it a little. You mean, that as you have tasted of some dissipation on a small scale at Oxford, you would, now that you are master of yourself and a small fortune, like to try it on the larger scale of London? Am I right ?"

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No, hang it, not exactly that. Women always fancy that seeing life is being dissipated-that awful word, which is generally a bugbear of their own or their mama's raising."

"Perhaps I have strange notions on these subjects," said Jessie, scarcely noticing her brother's protest. "I believe that if we follow the straight line of duty in our own station, whatever that may be, we see all we need of what you call life; and that those who step aside to see more of it, may occasionally be wiser in one sense-but are seldom happierthan their fellows. However, my dear brother, I don't expect a sister's tongue to turn you aside from your purpose. I only hope you may find the result of your search more conducive to your happiness than I anticipate. And now, Lorimer dear, I won't preach any more. God bless you, my brother, and shield you from harm! I must go to mama- -I don't like her to be alone."

Next day, Mr. Lorimer Littlegood proceeded to call on Mr. Bosher. The attorney received him with cordiality and the respect due to a client.

"What I particularly wish you understand, my dear sir," said he, "is the exact position of your own affairs. I dare say you are not quite acquainted with your father's property." I scarcely know anything about it."

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Exactly so," continued Mr. Bosher. "Well, first of all, there are six houses in Muddleford, which produce £306 per annum. Then there is a small farm at Whippenham, which lets at £180 a year. Then there is a sum of £3,000 on mortgage of Lord Crackley's estate, at 4 per cent.; that brings £120 a year. And then there are some shares in the railway here, which at the present dividend produce £245. Then there is exactly £1,000 a year dividends from 3 per cent consuls. All this is exclusive of the little landed property settled on your mother, and the £2,000 charged on it for your sister. So that, you see, your income is now £1,851 per

annum.

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"It is more than I expected," said Lorimer. "It would be absurd for me to go to the bar: don't you think so?"

"Decidedly," replied Bosher; and he did think so, though for very different reasons from those of his young client. May I ask what you do think of doing?" he asked.

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"I want to see life, you know," replied Lorimer.

"Exactly so; travel, I presume?"

"No: at least, not just yet. I think I shall run up to town and look out a snug little place to live in; and join a club; and go into society, and so on. You understand ?" "Entirely," said the lawyer; and again he spoke the truth.

"By the by," said Lorimer, "I owe about four hundred at Oxford. I suppose I can raise that without much trouble."

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"Thank you, thank you," said Lorimer, very heartily. "Do you want me to sign anything?"

"Not yet," replied Mr. Bosher; "and if you'll excuse me for giving you the advice, I'd recommend you not to sign anything you can help. You'll find, when you're seeing life, that there are some friends who are always anxious to possess one's autographs-on little stamped slips of paper."

“Ha ha!” said Lorimer. "Yes, I know something about that sort of thing. Good day." And he left the office.

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Capital fellow, old Bosher," he said to himself as he walked homewards.

"He'll go the deuce," muttered the attor ney when left alone; "and my impression is that he won't even keep to the high road to get there, but take an unusually short cut to reach it. We shall see!"

CHAPTER II.

THE PECKS.

MRS. PECK was rocking the cradle, and Mr. Peck was smoking his pipe. The cradle contained the fifth little Peck which the good wife had presented to her husband. And perfectly contented with the presents he had received looked Mr. Peck, as he puffed out small clouds of tobacco-smoke, and alternately glanced at his wife and his sleeping baby. Very happy also looked Mrs. Peck, as she watched the little one, and turned now and then a smile of loving satisfaction towards her husband.

Mr. Peck was, in size, next door to a giant. He stood six feet and we don't know how many inches more in his stockings; that is to say, when he stood upright, which was very seldom. He had very broad shoulders, very large hands, and enormous feet; but a head small enough for a much more moderate-sized man. It was a round, compact, bullet-shaped head, with crisp curling hair growing thickly over it. But it was not a vicious-looking head on the contrary, the expression of Mr. Peck's face was that of perfect placidity and good nature. You were not likely to mistake him for a genius; still less for a ruffian. He wore a suit of brown corduroy familiar to the eyes of all railway travellers; for Peck was a porter on one of the principal lines.

Mrs. Peck was almost as remarkable for her diminutive size as her husband for the reverse. She was small in height, and small every way --small features, small hands, and small feet. Indeed, so small was she, that it was currently believed that Mr. Peck had acquired his per petual stoop by continually leaning down to whisper soft tales of love in her ear, during their days of courtship.

Mr. Peck gave you the idea of a lazy goodnatured giant; not that he was actually idle, but he had a ponderous way of doing every thing, even to the lifting of a tea-cup, that impressed one with a notion of slowness. Mrs. Peck, on the other hand, was as lively as a little bird, hopping about the room, and doing half a dozen things at once, with the most perfect ease and vivacity. They had been married about six years, and the fifth little Peck in the cradle bore testimony to the rapidity with which Mrs. Peck added to the population returns of the Registrar-General.

It was an evening in April, and a cheerful fire was burning in the grate. There needed to be something cheering indoors, for the weather outside was wretched enough. The rain came pouring down in that determined style which makes it seem a type of infinity. Who can watch the steady, heavy streams from the pea-soup colored clouds, that are clouds no longer, but part of the atmosphere itself, and believe that it will ever leave off? Chilly and damp feels everything to the touch; dreary and miserable and dirty looks every living thing in the streets; monotonous and wearying sounds the incessant pattering on the windows.

"Job's very late, and it's an awful night to be out in," observed Mrs. Peck, as she looked at a little Dutch clock that hung over the dresser, and saw that it pointed to nine o'clock.

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'He's a good lad, I know, Tom," replied Mrs. Peck: "and I'm sure I love him as your brother; and it's because he is brother your that I'm so anxious about him. I hope he'll always be steady."

"Oh! he'll do," rejoined the giant, who was of a comfortable disposition, contented to take things as they came, and never trouble his little round head with the anticipation of evils that might never happen. Peck was a philosopher in his way.

A slight interruption to the conversation now took place, by Peck No. 5 in the cradle waking up and fancying that he was being defrauded of his proper share of nutriment. His dissatisfaction was expressed in the usually forcible infantile fashion of screaming, as though ten thousand pins were running into him, while his mother cried, "There, there, there, dear little fellow ;" and his father looked (like a politician of the Manchester school) anxious for peace at any price.

"I think I heard a knock, Tom," cried the wife, as soon as she could make her voice audible above the baby's yells: "perhaps it's Job."

conversation, as her husband was a man of few words.

"You recollect Mr. Littlegood, don't you?" said Weazel.

"The gentleman that lived at Verbena Cottage, when I was in service at Muddleford?" asked Mrs. Peck.

"Yes. Well, he's dead-been dead these six months," said Weazel.

"You don't mean that!" exclaimed Mrs. Peck, as if the idea of any one dying was something remarkably novel and incomprehensible: 66 poor fellow!"

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"He's dead and buried," said Weazel and as he had already told her that Mr. Littlegood had been dead six months, it is probable that the good woman would have conjectured that he had also been buried by this time.

"He was rich, wasn't he?" asked Mrs. Peck.

"Ah! that's it," answered Weazel, looking mysterious and extremely disagreeable at the same time. "He was rich; but how did he get his riches?"

"I'm sure I don't know: he didn't do anything wrong, did he ?" she asked.

"No: he didn't, perhaps; but his father did:" and Weazel looked more mysterious than ever.

"Goodness me! you don't mean it!" answered Mrs. Peck, with a vague feeling of terror, as if she were going to hear a ghoststory.

"Burked anybody ?" asked Tom, joining the conversation for the first time.

"No-not that," replied Weazel, contemptuously; for he despised Mr. Peck's intellectual powers, as much as he envied him his bodily

Mr. Peck went and opened the door, and admitted, not the expected Job, but a neigh-strength. "He was a lawyer, and he got bor with a dripping umbrella.

"Why, it's Mr. Weazel, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Peck. "Who'd have thought of seeing you on such a night as this?"

"It is an unpleasant evening, certainly," replied Mr. Weazel, shaking hands with her and then taking a seat; "and that's partly the reason why I came, for I thought you might be dull, and I'd got a little news to tell you."

The speaker was a sharp-featured, small man, with bright grey eyes, and an unquiet, perpetually-twitching mouth. His age was apparently about five-and-forty, but might have been less, as he was evidently of that nervous kind of disposition that never gives the body a fair chance.

"And what's the news?" asked Mrs. Peck, who generally conducted three-fourths of the

hold of property he'd no right to; and he warn't the only lawyer mixed up in it; and the other one's alive now; and I know the man who ought to have the property; and I've been finding out all about it these six years; and I've got nearly all the proofs."

It must not be supposed that Mr. Weazel delivered this speech right off as we have written it. He only gave a sentence at a time, and paused for half a minute between each one to observe the effect upon his hearers. Tom Peck took it very quietly-it did not concern him, and he didn't care anything about it. But Mrs. Peck, partly from having often seen the late Mr. Littlegood, and partly from being of a quick and sympathetic nature, felt greatly interested. She also felt rather in awe of Mr. Weazel, and that was precisely the feeling that Mr. Weazel was always anxious

to inspire. It is astonishing how sharp little men love to excite respect, and even dread. "Is your friend a good man?" she asked, after a pause.

"No: he's a beast," candidly replied Weazel.

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Mr. Littlegood was not a bad man, I believe; least-ways, I always heard him spoken well of at Muddleford," observed Mrs. Peck.

"I dare say he was well enough for a haristocrat," said Weazel, whose dislike made him aspirate the detested name.

"Don't you think, then," suggested Mrs. Peck, very mildly, "that it would be better to leave things as they are? It can't be the fault of poor Mrs. Littlegood nor Miss Littlegood, nor Master Lorimer, that the grandfather got the money wrongly; and as they've been taught to consider it's theirs, and always been used to all the comforts of life, it would be a shocking thing to turn them out of all their property; don't you think so?"

"I've nothing to do with that," answered Weazel, with the air of a Rhadamanthus. "I want justice."

"But you say your friend's a bad man! Do you mean to get him his property directly?"

"No," replied Weazel. "I haven't got all the proofs yet; and the worst of it is, I don't know where my lazy beast of a friend is." Mrs. Peck was glad to hear that, but did not say so.

"I tell you what I think," said Mr. Peck : and as he seldom communicated his thoughts, both Weazel and Mrs. Peck listened. "I think you'd better leave this affair alone; because, do you see, if Mr. Littlegood or whoever it is that has the money now, gets done out of it by you, of course he'll settle accounts with

you.

"How ?" asked Weazel.

"Break your neck," replied Peck.

Oh, I dare say! we live under the protection of the laws, and those that commit ferocious assaults are punished accordingly."

"I'd chance that," said Peck, quietly: "and I dare say he will."

Weazel sneered; but Weazel felt far from comfortable. Cunning little men are not often blessed with physical courage.

Another knock at the door was now heard, and this time it turned out to be Job himself. "Well, Job!" cried Mrs. Peck. "I thought you was lost."

"Nothing nigh it, sister-in-law," answered

Job.

"Have you got the situation, Job ?" asked Mrs. Peck, anxiously.

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Job was a miniature edition of his brother. He had the same round head and crisp curling hair he had the large feet and large hands also; but he was short and sturdy in build. The only thing remarkable about his face was his enormous mouth, which, when he laughed, and Job was almost always laughing, seemed literally to extend from ear to ear.

"I'll tell you all about him," said Job, looking, however, rather doubtingly towards Weazel, whom he evidently neither trusted nor liked, though poor Job was too simple a fellow to know why. "Fust of all, he's dressed like a Chinee, in a long silk gown with flowers all over it; and a little round flowery cap on his head; and flowery shoes on his feet; and a smoking thing in his mouth that's got a tail all curled round and round like the boar-constructor in little Tom's book (only it ain't so big), and it fits into a great glass thing like a bell, standing on the floor. But he smokes it, I can tell you; for I see the smoke coming out of his mouth." Here Job paused a little for breath, and then went on.

"Says he to me, 'What's your name?' and I told him, 'Job Peck.' Then he says, 'How old are you?' and I says, 'Eighteen, turned.' And then he says, Can you fight ?'"

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Gracious me!" cried Mrs. Peck; "what's that to do with horses ?"

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'Because,' says he," went on Job, “we may get into rows sometimes, and you'll have to take your own part:' and so I tells him, 'I ain't afraid of one of my own size and weight-nor a bigger one neither.' Then says he, Stand up and have a round;' and he squares up at me, and I at him, and he knocks me over in a jiffey; and I gets up laughing; and he says, 'That 'll do for the present,' and I thought so too. Then says he, 'Can you tell fibs without blushing and looking stupid?' and I answers that I've never tried; and he says, he's afraid I've been very badly brought up.

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"He ought to be ashamed of himself," cried Mrs. Peck, indignantly: "you've been very well brought up, Job-that you have; and you should have told him, that though you're poor you're honest

"All right, sister-in-law," said Job, who knew the torrent of eloquence that was coming. "I did begin something of that sort,

and he cries out, Oh yes, I know all about that-it's in all the melodramas-never mind, my lad, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; so if you like to come on Monday, you mayit's £20 a year wages, and three suits of livery -will that do?" So you see,” cried Job, triumphantly, "he's a trump, though he is such a rum un."

"Did he say any more?" asked Mrs. Peck, pacified by the engagement and the wages, and yet not quite at ease about the moral character of Job's master.

'No; just as he'd said what I tell you, a man came to bring him the ugliest bull-dog I ever see so I went away, and in the hall I saw another man waiting to see him with a white monkey, which he told me was a reg'lar curosity, and he knew he'd get a fifty pound note out of the governor for him—specially as it was cruel vicious."

"What's his name, Job?" asked Mr. Weazel.

"What? the monkey's ?"

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No; your new master's."

"Oh, I've got it down here in print," said Job, producing a card from his pocket.

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Mr. Lorimer Littlegood," read Weazel. "Lor!" exclaimed Mrs. Peck.

Weazel grinned-shook hands with his friends, and went away.

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The speakers were Mr. Lorimer Littlegood and his valet. The former was lounging on the most luxurious of sofas, in a Persian dressing-gown of rich colors and ample dimensions. The beautiful little Louis Quatorze time-piece on the mantle-shelf the mantle-shelf pointed to twelve o'clock, the table was spread with the preparations for a tasteful breakfast, and the whole air of the apartment bore witness to the habits of its occupant.

It was a moderate-sized room-rather small than otherwise-but furnished in a style the most extravagant and the most fanciful. Every article it contained was perfect of its kind; but there was a variety in the character of things selected, that puzzled you to decide whether the owner of them was most of a petit-maitre, a student, a sporting-man, or a rake. There were little gems of Sèvres china worthy of the Bernal collection; books of

great variety and value, side by side with the last French novels; hunting-whips, fox's brushes and muzzles, boxing-gloves and fencing foils; French paintings and statuettes, more truthful and beautiful than chastely delicate; meerschaum and china pipe-bowls, rare snuff-boxes, medals and medallions, ancient coins, and beautiful vases full of the sweetest and freshest flowers.

As for the mere upholstery, it was evidently chosen with a view to perfect ease and comfort. The exact shade of green which affords the most complete repose to the eye, was the prevailing color; every chair was a lounging-chair, though perfectly different from its neighbor; there were not too many mirrors on the walls, and very little gilding; while just sufficient light was admitted through the curtains to make the apartment cheerful, without producing a glare.

The obsequious valet brought the hookah and the coffee, and Mr. Lorimer Littlegood sipped the one and puffed away at the other. He was slightly altered in his personal appearance in the six months that had elapsed since his father's death. His profusion of brown curling hair, dark-blue eyes, and wellshaped face, clean shaven, except on the upper lip, where grew a small and most carefully trained moustache, made him what most young ladies would call decidedly handsome. At first glance, however, you would imagine that there was a vacancy in the expression of his countenance; but if you watched it carefully you might see that the vacancy was not real, but an assumed listlessness, which is very generally adopted by the juvenile members of dandyism in the present generation. A phrenologist would observe ample indications of sufficient intellectual powers, good moral feelings, and no great excess of animal passions. A physiologist would give a similar estimate of his character; but phrenologist and physiologist both admit, that when any single quality of the mind is constantly and specially called into play, it becomes the prominent feature of the character and absorbs a dozen otherwise counteracting influences. Unfortunately, Mr. Lorimer Littlegood was now under the special guidance of that quality which is the cause of at least three-fourths of the sins of the world— vanity.

Lorimer had followed out the intentions he announced to Mr. Bosher. He had come to London-taken a set of handsome chambers in the neighborhood of Piccadilly-furnished them as we have seen-purchased

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