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visible, but fields of all kinds and hedgerows, and cattle, and sheep.

"Halloa, lass! awake at last, he? Α mortal power o' sleep you've had, lass, and it'll do you good," cried the jolly wagoner, coming up to her. "Now get down and come in here and get a bit o' breakfast ;" and he lifted Peg Todd to the ground and led her into the little tap-room, where an immense slice of bacon, some brown bread, and a jug of hot milk were laid. It is not too much to declare that this was by far the most luxurious meal Peg had ever partaken of, since the death of the old man who protected her before she passed into the hands of our friend Mr. Weazel. She ate with an appetite that almost surprised the jolly wagoner himself.

"Have you got any money to pay for all that, lass?" asked he, with a grin, when Peg had finished.

Peg produced her eight-pence halfpenny.

"Ha, ha! bravo, lass,—put it back in your pocket," said he, laughing, "old Tom ain't rich, but he can pay for a wee thing like you."

When they were starting again, old Tom (as he called himself) was about to lift Peg back to her place in the wagon, but she begged to be allowed to walk for some time: so they trudged on, side by side.

"Tell 'ee what it is, lass,' " said Tom: "you're too young to be going about like this; where's father and mother?"

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"I ain't got any," answered Peg. "Dead, eh?" said Tom, sadly. "No," said Peg, "I never had none. "Never had no father nor mother-haw, haw that's a good 'un," laughed old Tom : "Stop a bit," he said, seriously; "I see-a fondling, eh?"

"That's it," said Peg;-" that's what grand-dad said I was.

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"Who was he?" asked Tom.

Peg explained as much as she knew of her history, and Tom listened gravely, and with deep interest to the narrative.

"And so this little bad man worn't kind to you, eh?” asked Tom, at the conclusion of the story.

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"I hate him!” cried the girl, fiercely. "Hold hard !" said Tom, "that won't do we musn't hate no one-leastways if can help it,-which ben't easy always, certainly."

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After this there was a pause. Peg had talked more the last few minutes than in all the previous two or three years, and natu

rally wanted breath, while Tom was exerting his poor brain to devise some plan for aiding the girl permanently.

"Should you like to live with a parishclerk?" asked Tom.

Peg declared truly that she was perfectly unacquainted with the profession in question; and certainly, on second thoughts, Tom confessed to himself that it had not much to do with the point.

"What I mean is this," said Tom : "I know a man and his wife in a big town I'm going to, who want a house girl. The man's a shoemaker and a parish-clerk, and he's a kind-hearted man too, and his wife's as good a body as need be, and I'm sure if they took you they'd not starve you nor ill-treat you no-how but would you work hard ?”

"Yes," said Peg, "I'm used to it."
"And you'd be honest, eh?"

"I never took nothing but the bit of bread I told you of," said Peg, rather indignantly.

"Poor lass!" said Tom, patting the dirty bonnet kindly. "Well I tell you what it is, if Crank ain't got a girl by when we get to his place, I'll try to make him take you -that's the best thing I can say."

Peg thanked him as well as she was able, and next evening they arrived at the town where her fate for the present was to be decided.

Old Tom took her to the house of his friends, and said everything he could in her favour. Indeed he said a great deal more than he could possibly have known, but all of which he thoroughly believed, for honesthearted Tom's faith was large, and what he believed he fancied he knew also.

"She's very small," observed Mrs. Crank. "Little and good," replied old Tom. "True enough;" said Mr. Crank, who was of the smallest build himself,-"She'll do." And so Peg Todd was engaged as maid-ofall-work in the establishment of Mr. Crank, bootmaker and parish-clerk in the town of Tweford.

CHAPTER XX.

HOW THE LITTLEGOODS BORE REVERSE OF FORTUNE, To awake and find one's self famous must be an exhilarating and glorious sensation; to find one's self suddenly possessed of a fortune must be almost equally delightful; but, in intensity, though in the opposite direction, perhaps both sensations are surpassed by

that of being suddenly beggared. It is said that great griefs are never felt in all their fulness at first, and especially is this true of the most sacred of griefs, that which arises from the death of those dear to us : we cannot then realize our loss all at once, and, therefore, we cannot realize all our sorrow. This may also be the case as regards loss of fortune, to some extent, but it is not altogether so.

In thinking of the dead whom

we loved in life, we are enjoying one of the most exquisite of the pleasures of memory; and though we mourn that we have lost so much beauty, affection, or goodness, yet the very recollection of those qualities is, in some sense, a balm to the wounded heart. We will not presume to place the grief which we experience for mere loss of fortune beside such a grief as this; but yet, in one sense, it is more painful-it has nothing to mitigate it. It is no consolation, but a downright aggravation of our sorrow, to recal the pleasures that wealth purchased for us and compare our present penury and helplessness with our condition then.

Doubtless the philosopher with his feet on his Turkey carpet, his bottle of claret at his elbow, and his fire burning cheerfullywill speak contemptuously of the idea of mourning over the mere loss of wealth. It is very absurd and yet there is not one who would not be guilty of the absurdity tomorrow. Our friend, Lorimer Littlegood, was neither philosopher nor hero, and, therefore, he was sadly cast down at his sudden reverse of fortune. Perhaps he would have borne it better, if not almost with indifference, had he been led to expect it as probable, but old Bosher having all along assured him that Bennoch's claim was a mere trumped up one to extort money, he never had any serious fears of the result. On attending the hearing of the cause (which Mr. Bosher took care not to do), Lorimer soon became convinced of the villany of Mr. Bosher, the invalidity of his own title to the property, and the utter beggary which awaited him.

At first he was violent in his grief, he wished he could get hold of Bosher and strangle him; he wished he himself might be seized with a violent illness and die; and many other such ridiculous ideas. By degrees he began to suspect that he was acting very absurdly, and behaving rather like a coward than a man of sense. After all he was young, well-educated, strong in body,

and sound in mind. He was no worse off than ten thousand others of his age and birth; he must trace out, some new course of life and pursue it steadily, and live in hopes of realizing an independence for himself. Before night he was tolerably quiet

and collected.

It was two days, however, before he could summon up resolution enough to go down to his sister and mother.

"Poor Jessie !" he exclaimed to himself, as he sat in the railway carriage, "how I dread to think of her fate! What a selfish brute I have been to be fretting over my own loss of fortune when she, a helpless girl, will suffer ten thousand times worse than I True she has a home, for the cottage is ours, and the magnificent income of one hundred a year! What a sum to live on! about as much as I have spent in oh! hang it, I shall go mad if I conjure up the ghosts of my own follies and extravagances to haunt me. How truly retribution follows crime; and how absurd to suppose because we do not see the punishment of many offenders, that therefore they do not suffer any. I am convinced that every evil deed bears with it the germs of its own punishment, as invariably as the flower carries the seed in its heart, whose gradual development is its own destruction."

For the first time in his life Lorimer approached the cottage with a sensation of dread; but scarcely had he entered the gravel road leading to the hall door, before the latter was thrown open, and Jessie rushed out joyously to welcome.

“My dear, dear brother, I am so pleased to see you," she exclaimed. "It's very kind of you to come to us, just at the moment when I want your assistance too. Come in, come in."

Lorimer was completely astounded. Either Jessie was a wonderful actress, or she was a wonderful woman, to appear or to be thus indifferent to reverse of fortune. Indeed, she appeared rather elated by it than otherwise. Certainly she could not be assuming a cheerfulness she did not feel, for she was too natural and single-minded for such a part; and yet was it possible that she should really contemplate poverty without fear?

"Are you not well, Lorimer dear?" she asked. "You look pale and haggard. Surely, you naughty boy, you have not been fretting about the loss of property, have

you? I shall not believe that, even if you tell me so."

"Indeed, Jessie, then you must remain incredulous, in spite of its being a fact, that I have fretted terribly-I am ashamed to think how much-over this dreadful reverse."

"Don't call it a dreadful reverse, my dear brother," cried Jessie. "Depend upon it, there is nothing so likely to frighten us as giving anything an ugly name. What is a change of fortune, after all? and why should you repine at it? Remember that I always told you that your own good and noble qualities would never come into play while you led a life of inglorious ease. Do not repine at what will make you a better man. Poverty can only degrade the naturally wicked; to the good, it is only the fire that purifies the silver from the dross that incrusted it."

"But I am not of the good, Jessie, I fear," said Lorimer, with a sigh.

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'Time will prove that," answered Jessie, with confidence. "Meantime, brother dear, I have firm faith in you; and believe me, that if you will always keep that one fact before your eyes, it will save you from many a temptation-not because it is I, your sister, who have confidence in you, but for the moral influence produced by the consciousness that there is at least one who will

think no ill of you. Trust breeds Truth."

"God bless you, my darling sister! Surely never nobler heart beat in woman's breast," cried Lorimer, embracing her. "But indeed, Jessie, I have latterly been mourning more for your fate than my own."

"Then throw off your mourning, and wear a suit of sables,' as Hamlet says (though I never could tell exactly what he means); for I assure you I am much happier now than I was before. I have something to do, and I was never made for inactivity." "Something to do?" asked Lorimer. 66 Why, what can you mean?”

"I will tell you what I don't mean first," answered Jessie, laughing. "I don't mean that I have taken a maid-of-all-work's place, nor a cook's, nor a housemaid's, because really I don't think I'm competent for the duties of either. I haven't thought it necessary to turn up my sleeves, leave my hair undressed, and scrub the door-step, by way of showing that I can endure poverty. I have not advertised for plain needle-work, because I am a very bad sempstress; and I

don't believe any lady would wear a petticoat, or any gentleman a shirt, made by my hands. I have not written to any theatrical manager, London or provincial, to offer him the bare chance of securing my inestimable services as an actress of anything from Lady Macbeth to a pert soubrette

"What have you done?" cried Lorimer, laughing, and interrupting her.

"I have simply called on most of our best friends in the neighbourhood who have children, and expressed my willingness to educate their daughters at twenty pounds a year each."

"And they?" asked Lorimer.

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They have promised me, among them, just ten pupils, which (you see I am getting up' my arithmetic) will give me two hundred pounds a year. This, added to our mother's one hundred pounds, will give us a sufficient income to live on, and to offer a home to my dear brother as often and as long as he will accept it at our hands."

"You are a wonderful girl, Jessie," said Lorimer, looking at her with delight and affection.

"I am nothing of the kind," answered his sister, "and I don't wish to be flattered. But I want your assistance, Lorimer."

"How so?" he asked.

"To help me make out a list of school books. Many of those used in girls' schools are such wretched things-bare facts and dates, which may be crammed into the head by force, but must inevitably tumble out again, like the articles in a badly-packed carpet-bag, and cannot be of any earthly use even while they remain in it. Now, I am sure that there must be far better educational books published-books that will lead a child forward through the subject it professes to teach, and not merely throw facts at him, to bewilder his brain and distress his memory."

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"Upon my word, Jessie," said Lorimer, laughing, "you will distinguish yourself in your new career; you seem already to have got a strong theory of your own on the subject of education."

"You are only quizzing me, I know," answered Jessie ; "but I certainly have thought a great deal on the subject, and it seems to me no very difficult one to comprehend. I cannot help fancying that nature and common sense are the best authorities we can consult in the matter. There is now a great outcry for an extension of education

—I don't mean educating more people, but making education embrace more subjects. To me there seems much error in this, and I firmly believe that more reformation is needed in the method of imparting knowledge than in the multiplication of its branches. Does it not strike you that the present is a very frivolous age e? Don't you think a great proportion of even clever people have a wonderfully superficial acquaintance with everything they pretend to talk about, and a bantering tone which is quite as much assumed to hide shallowness as to exhibit wit ?"

"We certainly live in an age when it is the fashion to laugh at everything," said Lorimer.

"Yes, because it is easier to laugh at anything than to comprehend it. Now, to my poor brain, it seems that this very shallowness and love of ridicule (I do not say they are always inseparable) arise from no deterioration of the intellect, but from its defective cultivation, and because it has never been trained to exercise and strengthen its powers by really studying any one subject, but has been satisfied with scraps and facts collected from all the histories and sciences known to the world."

"Bravo!" cried Lorimer. "Spoken like a professor, and reasoned like a sage.”

"Well, I shall talk no more about it," said Jessie, "as you only laugh at me, and certainly I have prosed away enough. However, I intend to put my theory into practice with my pupils, and see if I cannot form minds and characters at the same time. And now, sir, come here; take that pen and paper, and write down the list."

While they were thus employed, and were in the midst of a merry laugh over some remark of Jessie's, Mrs. Littlegood, who had only just risen, entered the room, and stared in surprise at the happy faces of her two children.

"My dear boy!" she exclaimed, as Lorimer rose and embraced her. "And has Jessie sent you mad, too?" she asked; "for I find you both laughing as if something very delightful had just happened, instead of our being all ruined."

"Jessie says we must not call things ugly names, and then we shall not be so alarmed at them," replied Lorimer; "and really, my dear mother, I begin to be quite of her opinion, for I came down here in terribly bad spirits, and this little witch has so

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"Ah, that wicked Mr. Bosher!" said the old lady, with a sigh.

Lorimer muttered something, which may have been a naughty word; we will hope it was not, as no one heard it.

"He has done me an act of kindness, at all events," said Jessie.

"How so?" asked Lorimer.

"By going away," she answered. "I never felt happy in that man's presence-I always feared him and distrusted him; in short, he was as disagreeable to me as a sleek cobra capella would be crawling about my room, and making me dread the moment when he would strike."

"We shall hear of more ruins caused by that man's villany," cried Mrs. Littlegood.

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"Let us hope, my dearest mother, that they will fall on none less able to bear them than ourselves," answered Jessie. have a house to shelter us, and an independence, even in our poverty, which many, many would envy: two of us are young, and full of health, and hope, and energy; and it will be strange indeed if we cannot make you, the third, happy and comfortable."

"God bless you, my children!” said the old lady, weeping; while Lorimer gently stole his sister's hand into his, and pressed it warmly.

And that night Lorimer Littlegood slept soundly, and woke next morning with a light heart. The battle of life was to be fought, and he was nerved for the strife.

CHAPTER XXI.

BILL BENNOCH ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS IN AN UNEXPECTED MANNER.

WE need scarcely say that William Bennoch, Esq., was now a very great man in the estimation of himself and all his particular friends and acquaintances. Indeed, the only one who seemed disposed to dispute his greatness was his wife, who considered him still a brute, though a rich one. Mr. Weazel was also, perchance, of the same opinion; but Weazel was a great deal too prudent to express his sentiments, as he was deeply interested in keeping on the best of terms with his friend. Of course Mr. Weazel had taken very good care of himself, and had persuaded Bennoch to hand him as

much ready money as he could decently ask for under all sorts of pretences; for Bennoch was not naturally an avaricious man; he was simply a confirmed drunkard, with all the low and brutal vices necessarily connected with that character. Still, with the cunning common to madmen and drunkards, he was often suspicious that he was being "done;" and on such occasions Mr. Weazel met his match, and found the purse-strings immoveable.

The first move made by the Bennochs was into a good house, which was furnished for them at the shortest notice, by those accommodating upholsterers, Messrs. Marquetrie and Co., who obligingly crammed their rooms with everything that was expensive and useless, and made out a bill whose dimensions astonished Bill, and frightened his wife, as it amounted to about a year's income of their new fortune.

Never did any one feel more uncomfortable than Wm. Bennoch, Esq., in his new abode. The nuisance of having to wear clean linen, and wash his face and hands, was bad enough; but not to be allowed to smoke his pipe in the drawing-room, or spit on the carpet, was quite insufferable.

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degrees he took to brandy-and-water, and from thence he passed by easy stages to that most diabolical of liquids-London gin. To have unlimited means of procuring this, might seem to be a drunkard's paradise; but, after all, the load of respectability was too heavy to be borne patiently on the shoulders of such a blackguard as our friend Bill.

Mrs. Bennoch played her new role of lady much better. She felt rather awkward in silk dresses and gloves, and had a natural propensity to turn up her sleeves, as if she were going to dive her arms into the washingtub, which she found it difficult to control. Neither did her temper altogether improve; and when Bill made a beast of himself (which was not much less frequently than of yore), she missed the soap-suds to throw over him terribly, and had to give vent to

her rage in an additional quantity of vituperation, coming clearly within the category of "Billingsgate."

Rose was the unhappiest of all. She did not enjoy the change of life in the least; on the contrary, she was constantly recalling the fact that their present prospect was built on the ruin of the only good and true friend she had known. The child was daily growing in sense and feeling; but the new scenes in which she lived served rather to retard her progress than to aid it. Her dread of her father, and her half fear of even her mother, did not diminish, and with their return came the strange reserve, the love of solitude, and the stealthy, and almost cunning, actions which distinguished her at home in the dirty little alley.

Her mother, to do her justice, was not without many qualms of conscience at living on what she could scarcely forbear from regarding as the property of one who had done such kindness to her loved child. But Weazel's ingenuity, though she still hated the man, removed many of these impressions; and she could not but find the change from eternal labour and want, to ease and plenty, a most agreeable one.

As for young Dick, he was transformed by tailor, hosier, and bootmaker, into such wonderful contrast to his former self that certainly his oldest friends would have failed to recognize him. Dick did not altogether appreciate the metamorphosis; and the veto laid on alleys and chuck-farthing was regarded by him with as much disgust as the prohibition of pipes and spitting in the drawing room by his father.

The latter, however, hit upon an expedient for remedying his own sufferings in part. Somebody had told him that every gentleman had a room to himself—a studio, or sanctum, where he might do what he liked, and into which womankind was never admitted. So Bill determined to furnish a studio.

First of all he laid down the thickest of Turkey carpets, for Bill had no objection to carpets themselves, but merely to being prevented from spitting on them. Then he had a great, strong, oak table, three or four chairs of similar build, with loose cushions, a small boiler to keep up an unlimited supply of hot water, a few prize-fight prints on the wall, a sofa as wide as a bed to roll on, and a bookcase filled-not with books, but tobacco and pipes, brandy, gin, rum, and

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