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

At this moment a voice calls 'Shop!' and a fairy, in the shape of a shoeless ragged girl, taps upon the counter. Ben Sparrow goes into the shop to serve, and Tottie is left alone with his effigy. Now it has been mentioned above that Tottie has a vice, and this is it: she is afflicted, not with a raging tooth, but with a tooth so sweet as to weaken her moral sense, so to speak: she is unable to resist temptation when it presents itself to her in the shape of sweetmeats or fruit, and her notions as to the sacredness of such-like property are so loose that (no one being by to see her do it) she helps herself. And yet it is a proof that she possesses a wakeful conscience, that she turns her back upon herself when she pilfers, as if she would wish to make herself believe that she is unconscious of what she is doing. Thus, seeing, say, a bowl of currants near, and no person within sight, she will approach the bowl stealthily, and, turning her back to it, will put her hand behind her, and take a fistful, with an air of thinking of something else all the while. And it is a proof that the moral obligation of her conscience is not entirely dormant, that, after the act is committed and enjoyed, she will, under the influence of a human eye, instantly defend herself without being accused, by 'No, I never! no, I never!' This express admission of guilt she can no more resist than she can resist the temptation itself. At the present time the sweet effigy of Ben Sparrow is lying within reach upon the table. Shutting her eyes. Tottie stretches out her hand, and plucking her grandfather's left leg bodily from his candied stomach, instantly devours it, cinnamon, raisins, and all-and has just made the last gulp when Ben Sparrow, having served his customer, reënters the parlour. He casts a puzzled look at his dismembered effigy, and mutters,

'Well! if I didn't think I had made my two legs, may I be sugared!' Which sweet oath is exactly appropriate to the occasion. Then he turns to Tottie, who is gazing unconsciously at vacancy, with a wonderfully intense expression in her eyes, and she immediately shakes her head piteously, and cries,

'No, I never! no, I never!'

Ben Sparrow, having his doubts aroused by this vehement asseveration of innocence, says mournfully,

'O, Tottie! Tottie! I didn't think you'd do it! To begin to eat me up like that!'

But Tottie shakes her head still more vehemently, and desperately reiterates, 'No, I never! no, I never!' With the frightful consciousness that the proofs of her guilt are in her inside, and that she has only to be cut open for them to be produced.

Ben Sparrow, with a grave face, makes himself another leg, moving himself, however, out of Tottie's reach with reproachful significance. An unexpected difficulty occurs at this point. Being top-heavy he cannot balance himself upon his legs; but Ben is of an ingenious turn of mind, and he hits upon the expedient of shoring himself up from behind with stout sticks of cinnamon. Then, setting himself up, he gazes at himself in admiration. Tottie's eyes are also fixed upon the effigy; it possesses a horrible fascination for her.

HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS

All night long Saul Fielding kneels by the side of his bed, absorbed in the memory of the woman whom he loves, and who, out of her great love for him, has deserted him. At first his grief is so great that he cannot think coherently; his mind is storm-tossed. But after a time the violence of his grief abates, and things begin to shape themselves in his mind. The night is cold, but he does not feel the winter's chill. The wind sighs and moans at his window, but he does not hear it. As it leaves his lattice, and travels through the courts and streets, it bears upon its wings the influence of the grief it has witnessed, and it sobs to the stone walls, 'There kneels a man in woe!' It gathers strength when it leaves the packed thoroughfares, which, huddled together like a crowd of beggars, seem to seek warmth in close contact, and becomes angry when it reaches the wide streets, angrier still when it reaches the woods, where the trees tremble as it rushes past them. Say that it rushes onward and still onward, and that we have the power to follow it-that we see it merge into other winds, and become furious-that we see its fury die away-that we leave the winter and the night behind us-that we travel ahead of it over lands and seas until we come to where spring and daylight are-that we travel onward and still onward, until noon and spring are passed, and we come to where bright sun and summer are. Where are we? Thousands, upon thousands of miles away; but the time is the same, for as the warm wind kisses us we look back and see the man kneeling by the side of his bed. It is winter and night, and there kneels the man. It is summer and day, and here is another man among the mountains lying on the earth, looking at the clouds. And the time is the same. The thoughts of both these men are in the past. What connection can there be between these two in such adverse places, seasons, and circumstances? They have never touched hands. What link can bind them? Heart-links? Perhaps. It would not be so strange. It may be that at this present moment, in some distant part of the world of which we have only read or dreamt, links in your life's chain and mine are being forged by persons whose faces we have never seen.

He is desolate. Jane has gone from him. She has left words of comfort behind her, but he may never look upon her face again. She has given him a task to fulfill. 'If I have done my duty by you,' she said, 'and I have tried to do it, it remains for you to do your duty by me.' He will be true to his dear woman, as she has been to him. He will strive to perform the task she has set before him-he will strive to find a way. Ay, if he dies in the attempt. He will consider presently how he shall commence. In the mean time, he must think of Jane.

He falls into a doze, thinking of her, and with her in his mind the past comes to him. The aspirations which filled his boyish mind-his love for books-his desire to rise above his surroundings-his reasonings upon the relation of this and that, and his theoretical conclusions, which were to suddenly divert the common custom of things, as if a creation could in a moment crumble into dust the growth of centuries-his delight when he found that he was an orator, and could move an assembly of men to various passions-his meeting with Jane- He went no farther. The memory of her as she was when he first saw her, a bright flower-ah, how bright, how trustful and womanly! – stopped farther thought, and for a time no vision appears of his downfall, his weakness, his disgrace, his sinking lower, lower, until he is almost a lost man. It comes to him presently with all its shame; but when he wakes, the chaos of images in his mind resolves itself into this: his life is before him, full of weeds, like an untended garden, but here and there are Forget-me-nots, and each one bears the name of Jane.

The morning light steals in upon his vigil, and still he has not decided how or in what way he shall commence his new life. In truth he is powerless. He has no weapons to fight with. His old confidence in himself, his pride, his strength of will, are covered with the rust of long weakness. Rising from his knees, he breaks the crust of ice upon the water in his pitcher, and bathes his face. The cold water seems to bring strength to him. He looks about the room, and everything within the poor walls speaks of Jane's love and care for him. The fire is laid with the last few sticks of wood and the last few lumps of coal. The old kettle, filled, is on the hob. The last pinch of tea is in the cup; the remains of the loaf are on the table. Not a thing is forgotten. 'Dear woman!' he murmurs. 'It is like you!' He paces the room slowly, striving to think of some path by which he can obtain a home for Jane, and thereby win her and reward her. It is useless, he knows, to seek for work here in the neighbourhood where he is known. He is known too well, and has sunk too low. Who would believe in his profession of amendment? Besides, what is the use of trying? He is of the same trade as George Naldret, and even George, a better workman than he, has resolved to leave, and try his fortune elsewhere, because of the difficulty he finds in saving sufficient money to buy a home for the girl he desires to marry. Even George is compelled to emigrate- He stops suddenly in the middle of the room, and draws himself up with a spasmodic motion. Jane's words come to him: 'It is a blessing for many that these new lands have been discovered. A man can commence a new life there, without being crushed by the misfortunes or faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. It might be a blessing to you.' 'A new life in a new land!' he says aloud. 'All the weakness and shame of the past wiped away because they will not be known to those around me. I should feel myself a new man-a better man; my strength, my courage would come back to me!' So strong an impression does the inspiration of the thought make upon him, that he trembles with excitement. But can he leave Jane-leave the country which holds her dear form? Yes, he can, he will; the memory of her will sustain him; and she will approve, as indeed she has done already by her words. 'It is the only way!' he cries; 'the only way!' Thus far he thinks, and then sinks into a chair, despairing. The means! How can he obtain the means? He has not a shilling in the world, nor any friends powerful enough to help him. Heaven's gate seems to be more easily accessible to him than this new land across the seas. But he does not allow himself to sink into the lowest depth of despondency. Jane stands before him; her words are with him; like wine they revive his fainting soul. 'Come, Saul,' he cries aloud to himself, resolutely. 'Come-think! Cast aside your weakness. Be your old self once more!' These words, spoken to himself as though they came from the lips of a strong man, sound like a trumpet in his ears, and really strengthen him. Again he thinks of George Naldret. 'Mr. Million gave him his passage ticket,' he says; 'would Mr. Million give me one?' No sooner has he uttered the words than the current of his thoughts is diverted, and he finds himself speculating upon the cause of Mr. Million's generosity to George. Friendship? No, it can scarcely be that. There can be no friendship between George and Mr. Million. Kindness? Perhaps; and yet he has never heard that Mr. Million was noted for the performance of kindly actions. These considerations trouble him somewhat on George's account, although he cannot explain to himself why the fact of Mr. Million giving George a free passage ticket to the other end of the world should cause him uneasiness. 'I wonder how it came about,' he thinks. 'I never heard George speak of emigrating until the ticket was promised to him. At all events, if George has any claim upon him, I have none. But Mr. Million is a public man, and may be in favour of emigration. It will cost him but little to assist me. There are Government emigration ships which take a man over for almost nothing, I have heard. A line of recommendation from Mr. Million in my favour would be sufficient, perhaps. I will try; I will try. If I knew a prayer that would make my appeal successful, I would say it.'

BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK

As a public man, James Million, Esquire, M.P. for Brewingham, felt it necessary to his position to spend two or three hours in his study every morning, and to 'make-believe' to be busy. Had you asked James Million what he was, he would not have told you that he was a brewer or a capitalist, but would have replied briefly and emphatically, 'A public man, sir.' Now, to be a public man, you must have a shuttlecock; and whether it was that Mr. Million had a real sympathy for the institution known as the working man, or because the working man drank large quantities of Million's Entire and Million's Treble X, it is certain that he set up the working man as his shuttlecock; and it is quite as certain that he set it up without in the least understanding it, being, indeed, a most unskilful player at any game in which his own interests were not directly involved. The game of battledoor and shuttlecock is a popular one with us from childhood upwards, but I am not aware that any close observer and noter of curious things has ever calculated how many shuttlecocks an ordinary battledoor will outlast. Popular as the game is with children, it is more popular with public men, who, battledoor in hand, are apt (in their enthusiasm and love for the game) to run into exceedingly wild, extremes when a new shuttlecock, with spick and span new feathers, is cast among them. Such a superabundance of energy do they in their zeal impart into the game that they often sorely bruise the poor shuttlecock, and so knock it out of all shape and proportion that the members of its family find it impossible to recognise it. How many a poor shuttlecock have you and I seen on its last legs, as one might say, in a desperate condition from being much hit and much missed and much trodden into the mud, and with feathers that would rival those of a roupy old hen in the last stage of dissolution! and looking upon it in melancholy mood, may we not be excused for dwelling sadly upon the time (but yesterday!) when its feathers were new and crimson-tipped, and when it proudly took its first flight in the air?

In appearance, James Million, the eminent brewer, was a small, flabby man, with a white face on which the flesh hung loosely. It had been said of him that his morals were as flabby as his flesh-but this was invented by a detractor, and if it conveyed any reproach, it was at best a hazy one. He had a curious trick with his eyes. They were sound and of the first water-not a flaw in them, as diamond merchants say; but whenever there was presented for his contemplation or consideration a question of a perplexing or disagreeable nature, he would close one of his eyes, and look at it with the other. It was a favourite habit with him to walk along the streets so, with one eye closed; and a man who set himself up for a satirist, or a wag, or both, once said: 'Jimmy Million is so moral that he doesn't like to look on the wickedness of the world; so he shuts one eye, and can only see half of it, and thereby saves himself half the pain.'

To James Million, as he sits in his study, comes a servant, who, after due tapping at the door, so as not to disturb the ruminations of the legislator, announces a man in the passage who desires to see Mr. Million.

'Name? asks Mr. Million.

'Saul Fielding,' answers the servant, and adds, 'but he says he does not think you know him.'

'What does he look like?'

The servant hesitates; he has not made up his mind. Although Saul Fielding is shabbily dressed, he is clean, and Jane's watchful care has made his wardrobe (the whole of which he wears on his back) seem better than it is. Besides, there is 'an air' about Saul Fielding which prevents him being placed, in the servant's mind, on the lowest rung of vagabondism.

'Is he a poor man? Is he a working man? demands Mr. Million impatiently.

'He looks like it, sir,' replies the servant, not committing himself distinctly to either statement.

Mr. Million has an idle hour before him, which he is not disinclined to devote to the workingman question, so he bids the servant admit the visitor.

'Wait a minute,' says Mr. Million to Saul Fielding as he enters the room. Mr. Million evidently has found some very knotty problem in the papers before him, for he bends over them, with knitted brows and studious face, and shifts them about, and makes notes on other pieces of paper, and mutters 'Pish!' and 'Psha!' and 'Very true!' and 'This must be seen to!' with many remarks indicative of the engrossing nature of the subject which engages his attention. After a sufficient exhibition of this by-play, which doubtless impresses his visitor with a proper idea of his importance and of the immense interest he takes in public matters, he pushes the papers aside with a weary air, and looks up, with one eye closed and one eye open. What he sees before him does not seem to afford him any comfort: for it is a strange thing with public players of battledoor and shuttlecock, that although they have in theory a high respect for their shuttlecocks, they have in absolute fact a very strong distaste for them. Seeing that he is expected to speak, Saul Fielding commences; he is at no loss for words, but he speaks more slowly than usual, in consequence of the heavy stake he has in the interview.

'I have ventured to call upon you, sir,' he says, 'in the hope that you will take some interest in my story, and that you will extend a helping hand to a poor man.'

Somewhat fretfully-for careful as he strives to be, Saul Fielding has been unwise in his introduction, which might be construed into an appeal for alms-somewhat fretfully, then, Mr. Million interposes with

'A working man?'

'I hope I may call myself so-although, strictly speaking, I have done but little work for a long time.'

Mr. Million gazes with curiosity at his visitor, and asks, in a self-complacent, insolent tone, as if he knows all about it,

'Not able to get work, eh?

'I have not been able to get it, sir.'

'But quite willing to do it if you could get it?'

'Quite willing, sir more than willing-thankful.'

Saul Fielding knows that already he is beginning to lose ground,' but his voice is even more respectful and humble than at first-although the very nature of the man causes him to speak with a certain confidence and independence which is eminently offensive to the delicate ears of the friend of the working man.

'Of course!' exclaims Mr. Million triumphantly and disdainfully. 'The old cry! I knew it. The old cry! I suppose you will say presently that there is not room for all, and that there are numbers of men who are in the same position as yourself-willing to work, unable to obtain it.'

Saul Fielding makes no reply; words are rushing to his tongue, but he does not utter them. But Mr. Million insists upon being answered, and repeats what he has said in such a manner and tone that Saul cannot escape.

'I think, sir, that there are many men who are forced to be idle against their will; that seems to be a necessity in all countries where population increases so fast as ours does. But I don't complain of that.'

'O!' cries Mr. Million, opening both his eyes very wide indeed. 'You don't complain of that! You are one of those glib speakers, I have no doubt, who foment dissatisfaction among the working classes, who tell them that they are down-trodden and oppressed, and that masters are fattening upon them! I should not be surprised to hear that you are a freethinker.'

'No, sir, I am not that,' urges Saul Fielding, exquisitely distressed at the unpromising turn the interview has taken; 'nor indeed have I anything to complain of myself. I am too crushed and broken-down, as you may see.'

'But if you were not so,' persists Mr. Million, growing harder as Saul grows humbler, 'if you were in regular work, and in receipt of regular wages, it would be different with you-eh? You would have something to complain of then doubtless. You would say pretty loudly that the working man is underpaid, and you would do your best to fan the flame of discontent kept up by a few grumblers and idlers. You would do this-eh? Come, come,' he adds haughtily, seeing that Saul Fielding does not wish to answer; 'you are here upon a begging petition, you know. Don't you think it will be best to answer my questions?'

'What is it you wish me to answer, sir?' asks Saul Fielding sorrowfully.

'The question of wages. I want to ascertain whether you are one of those who think the working classes are underpaid.'

Saul Fielding pauses for a moment; and in that brief time determines to be true to himself. 'Jane would not have me do otherwise,' he thinks.

'I think, sir,' he says, firmly and respectfully, 'that the working classes-by which I mean all in the land who have to work with their hands for daily bread-do not receive, as things go, a fair equivalent for their work. Their wages are not sufficient. They seem to me to be framed upon a basis which makes the work of ekeing them out so as to make both ends meet a harder task than the toil by which they are earned. The working man's discontent does not spring from his work; he does that cheerfully almost always. It springs out of the fact, that the results of his work are not sufficient for comfort, and certainly not sufficient to dispel the terrible anxiety which hangs over the future, when he is ill and unable to work, perhaps, or when he and his wife are too old for work.'

'O, indeed!' exclaims Mr. Million. 'You give him a wife!'

'Yes, sir; his life would be a burden indeed without a woman's love.'

Mr. Million stares loftily at Saul Fielding.

'And children, doubtless!'

'Happy he who has them! It is Nature's law; and no man can gainsay it.' The theme possesses a fascination for Saul Fielding, and he continues warmly, 'I put aside as distinctly outrageous all that is said of the folly and wickedness of poor people marrying and having large families. This very fact, which theorists wax indignant over-theorists, mind you, who have wives and families themselves, and who, by their arguments, lay down the monstrous proposition that nature works in the blood according to the length of a man's purse-this very fact has made England strong; had it been otherwise, the nation would have been emasculated. Besides, you can't set natural feeling to the tune of theory; nor, when a man's individual happiness is concerned, can you induce him to believe in the truth of general propositions which, being carried out in his own person as one of the units, would make his very existence hateful to him.'

Mr. Million opens his eyes even wider than before; such language from the lips of the ragged man before him is indeed astonishing.