the very end of his resources. He had no prospect of receiving money unless earned by the exercise of his brain. He was attacked with brain fever, and reduced to the condition of a mechanic with his arms broken-worse, for mechanics provide against such emergencies by mutual-assistance funds-provisions which literary men never think of, or, if they do, can never agree sufficiently among themselves to put in practice. There was not one of Marston's old friends to whom he or his poor distracted little wife for him (Marston himself was delirious on the second day), could apply for temporary assistance. The breach with the Merripebbles family, so mysterious in its origin to Lucy, left no hope from that quarter. Gregory Lynch was out of the question. The movements of Saumarez were SO eccentric that there was no knowing where to find him, even if his friendship could be relied on, which Lucy had once more begun to doubt. Biglow Miles, last heard of at St. Petersburg, en route for the Mediterranean, might be at the antipodes by this time. To deprive Lucy of her last hope, an envelope had arrived by post on the very morning after her husband had taken to his bed, enclosing wedding cards from Mr. and Mrs. Howker, and a note, in which the late Marion Crooze-after a little awkward preamble, which read, perhaps, just the least thing in the world like an apology for her condescension in having at last rewarded Howker's fidelity by making him the happiest man in the world, expressed her pleasure in stating that her dear and affectionate husband (the adjectives underlined by way of compensation for any possible injustice done to the now-adored Howker in the opening passages), had been appointed to the management of a branch of the business with which he had been so long connected, recently established at Gibraltar; to which pleasant locality the happy pair were about to sail immediately, there to take up their residence as a permanency. To this was added a postscript, in the bridegroom's hand, inviting Marston and Lucy to come out and see them whenever the former's engagements would permit, with the assurance that a new book of travels in Spain, by M. L., Esq., with illustrations by the author, was what the public wanted above all things, and would be more than sufficient to pay all travelling expenses. "Mind you do," the bride had written in conclusion, with a true woman's determination to have the last word.

"If I could only take him there when he is better, to restore him quite to health," Lucy murmured, as she laid down the letter, kissing her unconscious patient.

The only intimate acquaintances our hero (let the word stand sinc it is written; but I shall not apply it to poor Marston again) had made since his sojourn in London had been a few young men of his own age, belonging to the class whose characteristics I have attempted to sketch. Let no one be in too great a hurry to attribute this to a taste for low society. Bohemian society is not low; it is simply eccentric, exceptional. Its intellectual attractions are of a very high order. If it is deficient in social elegancies and amenities, it is also free from the unmeaning and wearisome restraints of what is called "polite society." Drawing-room philosophers may write till they tire, or even till they

incur that dreadful calamity of soiling their finger-nails, they will not succeed in convincing the rational portion of the community that it is better and wiser to waste one's time in the senseless fritter of "morning calls" and evening "receptions," than to sit and listen to the fearless discussion of vital truths by men of wit and learning, even though the Temple of Debate have a sanded floor, and its rites be performed to the unholy incense of tobacco-smoke. Marston Lynch not being what is called "a man of the world," did not possess the gift of making friends from motives of policy. He could not suddenly fall in love, as some people can, with a, lord, a banker, a millionaire, a literary magnate, or a publisher, and take such rapturous interest in the welfare and family doings of such people, as to claim immediate reward in the shape of substantial friendship, patronage, or employment. The only acquaintance Marston cared to cultivate was with people of his own age, with some congeniality of taste or character. The majority of such persons, among whom the chances of London life had thrown him, were men of the class I have alluded to.

But these were, for the most part, out-of-door comrades, scarcely known even by sight to Lucy. Some of them, Marston had occasionally brought home for a cigar and a chat; but they had usually stopped so late, consumed so much gin-and-water, and spoken such dreadful profanation of men and things that Lucy had been accustomed to hold in the highest veneration, that the poor little woman looked upon them with something like pious horror. There was one gentleman, it was true-Mr. Clough, the celebrated artist—who had somewhat re-deemed his character by taking notice of "baby," and earning the friendship of that important personage: but even this was an unsatisfactory offset to the unbecoming tint of Mr. Clough's linen, his inordinate passion for onions, and his unpleasant practices of swearing at every tenth word, and backing the majority of his assertions by bets. Another gentleman, Mr. Walrus, (the distinguished dramatist, poet, essayist, caricaturist, and, in his own opinion, vocalist and actor,) whom Lucy had been very much disposed to like, from the extreme suavity of his manners and the high moral tone of his conversation, in which he 'was accustomed to rebuke the too great freedom of his companions. But Mr. Walrus unfortunately displayed a tendency to get early drunk and quarrelsome; and was, furthermore, once detected in winking at the lodging-house maid-servant, who happened to enter the room during his enunciation of a delightful sentiment in praise of virtue, worthy of Solomon, or of Joseph Surface: whereby Walrus fell. There was, also, little Doctor Nussknacker, the Viennese refugee, also a favourite with baby, who spoke English with scarcely a foreign accent, and knew everything; who was a pattern of politeness, goodhumour, and abstemiousness; who would not even smoke, and confined himself to one weak glass of grog per night; who never made his appearance without some little mark of attention to his pretty hostess, if it were only a bunch of violets, a small purchase of choice fruit, or the loan of an amusing book; who would listen to Mrs. Lynch's long and exciting stories of baby's ailments and progress in knowledge of the world, with as much patience and interest as if he had been a wet

nurse on probation, instead of a doctor of medicine and philosophy, and ccrresponding member of numerous learned societies. Lucy was disposed to like the doctor exceedingly, had she not heard him speak, seriously and excitedly, in defence of "Red Republicans" (horrid creatures, only associated in Lucy's mind with the butchery of that poor dear queen, Marie Antoinette); and, humorously, in disparagement of her (Lucy's) favourite clergyman. Mrs. Lynch could not stand this. She at once charged the doctor with being a man of no religion whatever. To this the doctor replied, with grave and respectful humility, that Mrs. Lynch was in error: he had been born of Buddhist parents, but had been educated by a missionary of the shaking Quaker persuasion. The worst of these men, Lucy complained, was, that you could never tell when they were in earnest

or not.

At any rate, Lucy considered none of them in the light of friends to whom she could apply in the hour of need, had she known their addresses (which was what very few people did know). The poor girl's experiences of men had been limited; she knew not the tests to distinguish the true from the false. But on the third day, Marston grew worse. The only sign of consciousness he had shown during the two first days had been persistently and coherently to forbid his wife to send for medical aid. A morbid terror of expense had taken possession of him—not unnatural to a penniless man with a fevered brain. Lucy, ever accustomed to obey, had complied with his wishes. But this morning he was so much worse. Was she doing right in obeying even him, who was never wrong, now that he was not master of his own senses? She would have given anything for some one to consult -even one of those strange men who scoffed and made game of everything. She had scarcely formed the wish when Mr. Markworth was announced.

Mr. Markworth was one of "those strange men " whom Lucy had not liked at all, his offence being that he was "so satirical." This is a favourite adjective with ladies, which they employ for the expression of a variety of disagreeable meanings, except the right one. Mr. Markworth was an easy-going cynic, who, having a possibly misplaced contempt for most things, always spoke with contemptuous toleration of everything-which was perfectly sincere on his part, but which Mrs. Lynch interpreted as being meant ironically. However, she was very wrong in disliking Mr. Markworth, as she soon had reason to admit. This Markworth was a young man of good family, who had been educated at college with the belief that he would inherit a comfortable fortune. His father had speculated, lost every farthing, and shot himself. Young Markworth was left to himself with no resources but the exercise of his own talents—which were considerable, but not of a productive or popularly available character. He saw no path open to

him but that of literature-for which he felt but little vocation and no enthusiasm whatever. He wrote for a bare subsistence, with which he was negatively content. The effort of composition was hateful to him. Want and obscurity were preferable to sustained labour. was a galley-slave to the stern task-mistress, Necessity, whom he only served upon compulsion, and within the strict letter of their hard

He

bargain. He was a philosopher in his way, defying Destiny with much cheerfulness, from the bottom of the Bohemian pit into which he had been thrown to cast him any lower. He was a man without hopes, and with the most infinitessimal cares.

He had called this morning intending to loiter away as much of the day in Marston's society as the latter might be disposed to allow him. He was greatly distressed to hear of his friend's illness, and with an expression of deep interest (Lucy wondered whether he was "making game"), requested to see the patient. His experience at once told him that Marston was in great danger. He briefly informed Lucy that he thought medical assistance necessary, and that he would go immediately in search of a doctor.

He left the house, and soon returned in a cab (Mr. Markworth never divulged by what means he had raised the funds to liquidate that and subsequent expenses in the course of the day), accompanied by Doctor Nussknacker, laden with sundry packages and phials, and Mr. Thomas Clough, as an unattached reserve in case of emergencies-the latter flushed as to countenance, thick as to speech, and damaged as to hat. Mr. Clough having expressed the deepest concern for Marston, apologised to Lucy for his disordered appearance, on the plea that he had been up all night, finishing a picture by gaslight for the exhibition, and that he had been suddenly called to his friend's assistance before he had time to. The oratorical performance concluded abruptly with a hiccough; and Mr. Clough threw himself despairingly on a sofa, where he slept the sleep of innocence for the space of one hour.

The Doctor was a man of business, and, what was better, a man of brains and experience. He was a disciple of the sage, Raspail. Marston speedily found himself lifted as from a lake of infernal fire into a cool Elysium by the magic application of eau sedative-of which fountains should flow in every street, and all lancets, leech-jars, and blister materials whatsoever (which its invention should ere this have superseded), confiscated to pay the expenses of their erection. The Doctor and Markworth declared their intention of sitting up with their patient all night. It was wonderful by what simple words and cheering persuasions they induced Lucy, soon after their arrival, to quit that bedside which she had declared she positively would not leave on any account, to take a few hours' rest. The department for which Mr. Clough had been retained was that of light porter and general man of all work. As soon as he had recovered from his nap, he was sent out for physic, with which he returned, bringing in with him also an unmistakeable odour of fresh malt liquor, a small cylindrical paper parcel labelled "Best Birdseye," and two clean pipes (the Doctor, as we have seen, did not smoke). Poor Lucy was strangely embarrassed by, and strangely grateful to, these odd auxiliaries. They had but two rooms, and, alas! no servant. Finding their means getting narrower, she had dismissed her little nursemaid, on the plea of incapacity; and in answer to all Marston's exhortations that a successor should be engaged, had said she "would see about it"—"there was no hurry""Baby was teething, and she could not bear him out of her arms,"

and the like. They were in debt, too, with the lodging-house people, and at every necessity for ringing the bell Lucy felt sick and giddy. It was marvellous how Mr. Clough relieved her on the majority of those trying points. He set the disordered room to rights with the skill and celerity (and much of the aspect) of a "drudging goblin." He made a bed of great coats and cloaks on the sofa, and insisted that Lucy should go to sleep thereon instanter, bidding her not to mind

him, as he was old enough to be her grandfather (Mr. Clough was in his three-and-twentieth year), and facetiously offering, if Mrs. Lynch should object to smoke, to go out, and prevail on the fire to do the same. Lucy, half smilingly, was yielding to the sleep she found it. no longer possible to resist, when Baby, from his cradled post at the foot of the sofa, began to cry. Lucy started up. Mr. Clough sternly ordered her to lie down again, and took the squalling heir to the estates of Lynch in his arms.