Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

Till death, and after it,

    Your own
    Jane.'

He read the letter twice, first with only a vague sense of its meaning, but the second time with a clearer understanding. Sobs came from his chest, tears came from his eyes, the hand that held the paper trembled, as he read. He knew that she was right. But it was hard to bear-bitterly hard to bear. How lonely the room looked-how mean and miserable and desolate! Faint as he was-for he had been standing in the cold streets for hours, playing with the waits, and nothing but a sup of water from a drinking fountain had passed his lips-he had no consciousness of physical weakness. All his thoughts were of Jane, all his heart and soul and mind were charged with tenderness for his dear woman. He looked at the words 'Dear Love,' until he heard her voice speaking them. He had no thought of following her; her happiness depended upon his obeying her, and he would obey her. He had resolved upon that immediately. But, O, if he could hold her in his embrace once more! If he could hear her dear voice again! If, with her arms around him, he could tell her that he would be faithful to his promise! He dashed the tears from his eyes. 'She is thinking of me now,' he sobbed; 'she is awake and praying for me now! All the suffering of our parting was hers. She took it all upon herself, dear soul! She knew, and I did not; and her heart was bleeding while she shed the light of hope upon mine! What does she say here, dear soul, to lessen my pain? "You have said so much to-night to comfort me! I treasure your words. They are balm to my heart." It is like her-it is like her, to write those words. She knew, dear woman, she knew, dear heart, that they would comfort me! But I want strength! I want strength!' His eyes travelled over the letter again, and again he read the words, 'Pray to Him also, dear Love. He will hear you, and pity.' Pressing the paper to his lips, Saul Fielding sank upon his knees, and bowed his head upon the bed.

TOTTIE IS READY TO TEAR OLD BEN SPARROW LIMB FROM LIMB

As nearly all the persons with whom this history has to deal are almost in the same station of life, and live within a stone's throw of each other, it is not a difficult task for us to transport ourselves to the little parlour in the rear of old Ben Sparrow's grocer's shop, where Ben Sparrow himself is at present considering the mechanism of a curious and complicated piece of work, the separate parts of which are lying before him. Although the parlour and the shop adjoin each other, Ben Sparrow looks upon the parlour as being a long way off, like a country house, as a place where he can obtain repose from the cares of the counter and shelves. And it really is a snug, cozy retreat.

Ben Sparrow came into the world exactly at midnight of the 21st of October 1805, a few hours after the battle of Trafalgar was fought and won; and the doubtful compliment was at once passed on the new arrival of being the very smallest baby that ever was seen. But then women go into extremes in these matters, and their statements that this is the most beautiful baby in the world, and this the smallest, and this the chubbiest, and this the darlingest, must be taken with very large pinches of salt. On that occasion the very smallest baby in the world acted in precisely the same manner as he would have done if he had been the very largest baby in the world. Looking upon the world as his own especial dunghill (as we all of us do), he immediately began to crow, and sounded his trumpet with the weakest of lungs to show that he had made his appearance upon the stage. The sound of Westminster bells was ringing in his ears as he gathered up his little toes and legs and clenched his little fists with an air of saying, Come on! to his brothers and sisters in the profession; and in after-days he often declared jocosely that he perfectly well remembered hearing his first twelve o'clock proclaimed by the tongue of old Westminster. Between that time and this, Ben Sparrow had grown from a very small baby to a very small man, and many eventful things had occurred to him. When he came to man's estate-the only estate he ever came into-he entered into business as a grocer; married, and lost his wife, who left behind her one child, a son, who had 'gone wrong,' as the saying is, and whose place knew him no more. The 'ups and downs' of life are generally believed to be a very common experience; but they could scarcely have been so with Ben Sparrow, he had so very many downs and so very few ups (if any) in the course of his career. Still he managed to plod on, somehow or other, until the present time, when he and his granddaughter, Bessie Sparrow, whom you have seen, and Tottie, a child of whom you have had a glimpse, after she had been put to bed by Bessie, are living together in the small house of which the grocer's shop forms part.

This short biography being concluded, we come upon Ben Sparrow, sitting in his parlour, contemplating the separate parts of the curious piece of work above referred to. The only other person in the room is Tottie, who is perched on a high chair, with a rail in front, to prevent her making an attempt to walk in the air, and whose attention is divided between the old man and certain sweet things which are spread upon the table. Such as three large fat figs-luscious young fellows, new, ripe, and with so tempting an air about them as to make their destruction appear inevitable. (Tottie is ready to act as executioner; her eager eyes attest that they would have short shrift with her.) Such as half-a-dozen or so sticks of cinnamon, not as fresh-looking as the figs, being indeed rather wrinkled specimens of spice; but, notwithstanding their snuffy colour, they have an inviting odour about them, and tickle the nose tantalisingly. (Tottie would not say them nay, and is ready to devote them to destruction on the first word of command.) Such as a few dozen of plump dried currants, of exquisite sweetness. (As Tottie well knows, from experience of their fellows, not honestly come by; for, notwithstanding her tender years, Tottie has a vice, as you shall presently see.) Such as two or three bunches of muscatel raisins, rich-looking, princes among grapes, with a bloom upon their skins, which speaks eloquently of luscious juices within. (Tottie's eyes wander to these, and her mouth waters, and her fingers wait but for the opportunity. If some kind fairy would but cry 'Shop!' now, and call for a quarter of a pound of brown sugar, or an ounce of tea-the best one-and-fourpenny-or a ha'porth of barley-sugar! But business is slack, as Ben Sparrow will tell you, with a doleful shake of the head, and there appears no such fairy, in the form of a slattern with shoes down at heel, or of a bold-faced girl with her baby in her arms, and with a blue handkerchief tied crosswise over her bosom, or of a gutter-student, capless, with straggling-hair, or of a man of any age, weak-eyed with shaking limbs: no such fairy calls 'Shop!' in Tottie's interest, and taps the counter with the nimble penny.) Such as two whole halves (the prettiest of paradoxes) of candied lemon-peel, with such an appetising fragrance oozing out of them, with such delicious patches, of sugar clinging to their aldermanic insides and outsides-pearls in mussels are valueless as a comparison-that the precious things of the world, such as dolls and boxes of wooden soldiers (would they were all so!), and oyster-shells and pieces of broken china to play at dinners and teas with, fade in the contemplation of them. (At least, such are Tottie's feelings, as she looks and longs. O, for the fairy!) Such, to conclude with, as a few shreds of mace, and a clove or two-scarcely worth mentioning in the presence of their superiors.

These delectable joys of life being spread upon the table, immediately under Tottie's nose, and Tottie's attention being divided between them and their lawful owner, Ben Sparrow, it will not be difficult to see which of the two possessed the greater charms for her. A rapid glance at Ben Sparrow's face, a lingering gaze upon fruit and spice, another rapid glance (with a slight reproach in it this time) at Ben Sparrow's face, and, finding no benevolent intention there, a more fixed and longing gaze upon the treasures of the earth-thus it goes without a word on either side (the thoughts of each being so intensely engrossing), and thus it might have continued for goodness knows how long, but that Ben Sparrow, with a cheery laugh, taps Tottie's cheek with his forefinger, and cries, in a tone of satisfaction,

'Now, I've got it!'

(Tottie wishes she had.)

'Now, I've got it,' cries the old man again; 'all complete.'

Tottie shifts restlessly in her high chair.

'And Tottie shall see me make it,' says Ben, with beaming face, rubbing his hands, and shifting the fruit and the spice about much the same as if they form pieces of a puzzle, and he has found the key to it. 'Especially,' adds Ben, 'as Tottie will sit still, and won't touch.'

'No, I never!' exclaims Tottie.

This is Tottie's oath, which she is much given to swearing when her honour is called into question. Tottie's 'No, I never!' is in her estimation worth a volume of affidavits, but it is much to be feared that her sense of moral obligation is not of a high order.

'And as Tottie's a good little girl-'

'Tottie's a dood little girl!'

There is no expression of doubt in the nods of the head with which Tottie strengthens this declaration.

'And'll sit still, she shall see me make it.'

The good old fellow laughs. He does not seem to realise how difficult is the task he has set Tottie. To sit still, with these treasures in view! Here an agonising incident occurs. A small piece of candied sugar has become detached from one of the halves of lemon-peel, and Ben Sparrow, with an air of abstraction, picks it up, and puts it-in his own mouth! Tottie watches him as he moves it about with his tongue, and her own waters as the sweet dissolves in her imagination. She knows the process as well as Ben, and appreciates it more, and she sighs when the candy is finally disposed of.

'You see, Tottie,' says Ben, taking her into his confidence, 'business is very slack, and Christmas is coming, Tottie.'

Tottie gives a nod of acquiescence.

'So I think to myself-another nod from Tottie; she also is thinking to herself-'if I can put some thing in the window that'll make the people look at the figs-'

Here Tottie introduces an artful piece of diplomacy. 'Tottie can spell fig,' she says, and proceeds to do it smilingly-'F-I-G, fig.'

But Ben, intent upon his scheme, does not see the point of Tottie's interruption, and proceeds:

'-Something that'll make 'em look at the figs, and the currants, and the raisins-something new and spicy'-(Ben laughs at this joke, and repeats it) – 'something new and spicy, perhaps it'll wake 'em up, and bring 'em in here instead of going to another shop. For they want waking up, Tottie, they want waking up badly.'

Solemn nods from Tottie proclaim the serious consideration she has given to the general sleepiness and indifference of Ben Sparrow's customers.

Ben Sparrow picks up a fat currant and contemplates it with as much interest as a geologist would contemplate a new fossil. Tottie's eyes follow his movements; she sits like Patience on a monument, and another sigh escapes her as Ben Sparrow (again abstractedly) puts the currant in his mouth, and swallows it. Draw a veil mercifully over Tottie's feelings.

'It was in the middle of the night,' says Ben Sparrow with all the impressiveness demanded by the historical fact, 'that I first thought of making ME, and putting ME in the window to attract custom. I was a good deal puzzled about my legs, and my stomach got into my head, and I couldn't get it out; but little by little all my limbs and every other part of me came to me until the idea was complete. And now we'll try it-now we'll set to work and make a MAN! And if you're a good girl, and'll sit still, you shall see ME made.'

Tottie's experience in literature is very limited-extending no farther, indeed, than b-a-t bat, c-a-t cat, r-a-t rat, d-i-g dig, f-i-g fig, p-i-g pig-and she knows nothing of the terrible story of Frankenstein; therefore, she is not at all frightened at the idea of seeing a man made, nor has she any fear that it will turn out to be a monster. On the contrary, if Ben Sparrow's thoughts would only take a benevolent turn in the shape of a fig for Tottie, or a few plums for Tottie, or some candied sugar for Tottie, she would be prepared to enjoy the feat which Ben is about to perform as much as if it were the best bit of fun in the world.

'Now, then,' commences Ben, with a whimsical glance at Tottie, who smiles back at him like a true diplomatist, 'I don't know what part is generally made first, but perhaps it'll be as well to commence with the stomach. Here it is-here's my stomach.'

He takes one of the halves of the candied lemon-peel, and places it before him, round side up.

'There's a little too much sugar in me,' he says, with a more whimsical glance than the first; 'it'll make me rather too heavy, I'm afraid. And besides, Tottie, it ain't true to nature. My inside ain't got such a coating as this.'

He breaks a piece of candied sugar from the inside of his stomach, looks at Tottie, notices her wistful eyes, and gives it to her. She eats it eagerly, and so quickly as to cause amazement to Ben Sparrow, who says,

'You shouldn't eat so fast, Tottie. Good little girls don't eat so fast as that.'

Tottie, with feminine duplicity, accepts this warning in an inverted sense, and cries, with her mouth full of sugar,

'Tottie's a dood little girl!' as if indorsing a statement made by her grandfather. But Tottie's thoughts are not upon the good little girl; at the present moment she resembles a savage. She has tasted blood, and thirsts for more.

'It's a fatter stomach than mine,' proceeds Ben, laying his hand upon his stomach of flesh, the stomach he came into the world with; 'it's rounder and plumper, and would fit the Lord Mayor or an alderman, but it'll do, I daresay. Now for my neck.'

He picks up the thickest piece of cinnamon, and measures it with his eye, breaking the stick in two. 'I mustn't make my neck too long-nor too short-and I take the thickest piece, Tottie, because it's got to support my head. Like this.' He makes a hole in the end of the lemon-peel, and sticks the cinnamon in firmly. 'Now to stick my head on, Tottie.'

He selects the largest of the fat figs, and attaches it to his neck. 'What's the next thing? My eyes, to be sure. Currants.' Remarkably like eyes do they look when they are inserted in the face of the fat fig. Then he takes a clove for his nose, and, making a thin slit in the fig for his mouth, inserts an appropriate morsel of mace. All this being successfully accomplished, he holds himself up (as far as he goes) for his own and Tottie's inspection and approval. Tottie claps her hands, and laughs, but subsides into a quieter humour at a guilty thought that steals into her mind. She thinks what a delightful thing it would be to take her grandfather (as far as he goes) and eat him bit by bit.

'I begin to look ship-shape,' observes Ben Sparrow, gazing admiringly at the unfinished effigy of himself. 'You see, Tottie, what the people want nowadays is novelty-something new, something they haven't seen before. Give them that, and you're all right' (Which vague generality appears to satisfy him.) 'Now, here it is-here's novelty-here's something they've never seen before; and if this don't bring custom, I don't know what will.'

Tottie gives a grave and silent assent; she cannot speak, for her mind is bent upon cannibalism. She is ready to tear the old man limb from limb.

'But,' continues Ben Sparrow, unconscious of the horrible thought at work in the mind of the apparently innocent child before him, 'I must get along with myself, or I shall never be finished. I haven't been in any battle that I know of, and I wasn't born a cripple, so my limbs must be all right when I appear in public. Now for my arms. More cinnamon! I think I may call cinnamon my bones.'

When two pieces of cinnamon are stuck into the sides of the candied lemon-peel, they look so naked that he says,

'I must put sleeves on my arms.'

And impales raisins upon them, and sticks five small slips of mace in each of the last raisins, which serve for fingers.

'Now for my legs, and there I am. More cinnamon!'

Two sticks of cinnamon stuck in the bottom of his candied stomach, and then clothed with raisins, form his legs, and there he is, complete.

'I think I'll do,' he says complacently.