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"Shew him in," answered the lawyer, the chain of his thought unbroken. Mr. Austin entered the room, and was motioned into a chair, where he sat for half an hour, without a single word being spoken. Austin was the captain of a steam-packet: he was a fine specimen of a rough, honest, hard-handed, but kind-hearted, old sailor;-broad across the chest, as his own cabin-door, and with a countenance which had been bronzed in the hot sun of many a climate. Though he had earned sufficient to live upon, he loved to feel the dash of the salt spray upon his wind-and-weather-beaten cheeks, so took to a steamer, as he said, 'just for amusement and a bit of a change, as it was like living at home, and only going out now and then for a trip, with a pleasant company.' He was captain of the unfortunate packet on which the explosion took place, alluded to in the first chapter of our story. Since that melancholy affair, he had bought a share in a larger vessel, which voyaged from Hull to London ;- all sea,' as he said, 'but the Thames.'

"Well, captain," said the lawyer, at length arising from his seat, and shaking the honest sailor as heartily by the hand as if he had only just at that instant entered the room, instead of having sat there a whole long, silent half hour; "and how are you, my friend? You have encountered a few storms since I last saw you. No more explosions,

I hope."

"Rather a rough voyage this bout, sir," answered the captain, turning the quid in his chcek, and spitting into the fire, with a crack which struck the hot bars like a pistol-shot; "dirty weather aloft, a good deal of the way; but we rode right through it without any damage being done, except to one of the paddle-boxes, which an ugly sea struck in Boston Deeps."

"I am very glad to hear you got off so well," replied the honest lawyer, as he still retained the big, brown, sun-burnt, fist of the sailor within his own snow-white hand, for such it looked, enfolding the broad paw it pressed;-pale learning, and swarthy labour entwined: two more honest hands never grasped one another. "Well," continued the lawyer, as he reached the worthy sailor a chair, then seated himself opposite, "have you heard anything about the young man we spoke of, since I last saw you?"

"A good deal," answered the captain; "I went on pose while we were repairing the packet last voyage. a squire's daughter. Ingledew is the gentleman's name. where in London now. I saw an old Parson, who will

a cruise on purHe has married

He is somecall upon you

in a day or two. He buried Mr. Pashley at Sutton-cum-Bottesford, where the explosion took place. It was one of those d-d high-pressure boilers, where it's either burst or blow-up. But it was the first and will be the last I'll ever walk the deck over."

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"Married, is he? and to the daughter of Squire Ingledew?" said the lawyer, screwing his mouth up, as if he was about to whistle. Oh, oh! this is very strange!" and he took down a strong square box, labelled P, No. 1, and was soon busied in the perusal of its contents. After a time, he turned round and said, "Was the worthy clergyman, of whom you spake,-Freedom, or Preedom, I forget which,-was he aware that the name of the gentleman he interred was Pashley?"

"I should think not," replied the captain; "for he called him Malvern, poor Mr. Malvern, a many times over. And the good old man had a deal to do to keep from crying. I was so sorry, that I offered him a quid out of my tobacco-box; but he shook my hand, and said, he never 'chewed.' I offered to stand a glass or two of rum; he shook his head, and thanked me, and said he never drank spirits He invited me in to take a cup of tea; but I told him, a stiff glass of rum, or a bottle of stout, a biscuit, and a piece of salt beef, was all the tea I ever took. He's a fine old fellow is that parson. If I lived near him, I

should go to his Church every Sunday. I did go into his house, and he sent out for some rum for me, and got me a pipe and some tobacco, but the smoke made him cough, so I soon laid the pipe down, and took to a quid. You'll like him, lawyer; I know you will.”

But the lawyer was too much occupied with his papers, to pay any attention to more than the opening sentence of the honest captain's long answer; and when he spoke again, it was only to say, "Did you give Mr. Preedom my address ?"

"Not a bit of it!" answered the captain; "don't you know that you told me to act very cautiously?—No, no! you wont catch Jack Austin at that, when mum's the word!" and the honest sailor clapped the tip of his fore-finger to the side of his nose, then added, "An old captain never gives up his despatches to a stranger, however much he may admire the build of him. You may like a man, and shake hands with him, though next day, duty brings you both broadside to broadside, and you have to fire away into each other like blazes. No, no, my fine fellow, you wont catch me at that!"

The worthy lawyer could not refrain from smiling at the sailor's honest egotism, though he regretted that he had carried out his useless caution so far, especially as so long a time had elapsed since Mr.

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Pashley's death, about whom he seemed to know much more than he at present had cause to communicate. "You will look in upon me, again, before you leave London," said the lawyer; "and,-by the way, have you taken lunch ?"

The captain confessed he had taken nothing, but a glass of neat rum since breakfast, which he declared to be d-d bad. So the bell was rung, and an order given at once to prepare this neutral meal, although it was just upon the captain's dinner-hour. But a glass of good wine, cold fowl and ham, drove away all further thoughts of dinner for that day. He ate, drank, and talked like a man, and made such a hole in the ham, after all the fowl was eaten, as would have led you to suppose that at least half a dozen lawyers had that morning lunched with Richard Cook, gentleman. He drank up the wine like ale, of which he rarely took less than three imperial pints.

"It was very singular!" said the captain, as his ears got warmed, and his tongue loosed with the choice old wine ;-" very singular, that this Mr. Pashley should wish me to bring his writing-desk, and all his papers to you, if anything happened him. I do assure you, sir, he handed them over to me, and asked me to lock them up in my own cabin, just as a man would ask you to take care of his carpet-bag.— And he spoke about life, as I have heard many a fine fellow do, just before an engagement was about to take place. He would have made a fine sailor-would that gentleman! but, lord, sir! he was sent off into eternity like a rocket! He was in heaven (as the sailors say, when any of their shipmates have had their head shot off), before the devil had time to hear of his death; and that's the beauty of being killed in battle. No doctors, nor nurses to bother you to say, take this, or take that just one stroke with a hard dumpling, and off you go, sir, into Abraham's bosom, before you know where you are. One puff tears away your canvass, and it 's turned into angel-wings in a crack :-this is capital wine!—I should like to drink your health in another bumper before I go. The ham was rather salt-but a beautiful flavour-I never ate a better !"

Another bottle of wine was uncorked; and the highly-gifted lawyer sat and chatted as familiarly with the honest tar, as if he had enjoyed the society of the greatest barrister on the Bench. Here he revealed the character of the true gentleman. A honest man, no matter what his station might be, so long as he conducted himself with propriety, he treated like a brother; for he had not gathered all his knowledge from books. He had studied men, as well as the law; could soar with

eagles, when he had no other companions, or content himself, for an hour or two, with the chirp-chirp' of the homely house-sparrow. A sparrow can build such a nest, as would baffle the ingenuity of a man; and could it talk to us, your honour, we might learn something by listening to it. We once had a dear, old grandfather, who used to say,— "Never despise nothing, nor nobody; I once would have given a snilling for a pin or a bit of a string, when I lost both my buttons; but I took off my neckerchief, and tied it round me. We never know wnat will be of use to us, until we need it." Our good old grandad was a rural and rude philosopher-we have not forgotten him. The captain and the lawyer separated, well satisfied with one another.

A great change had come over Godfrey Malvern since he received the letter from Emma; and he seemed to feel more acutely the deep injury he had inflicted upon his affectionate wife. The keen, lovewatching eye of Maria soon detected this change, for she had long since learned to read Godfrey's every look: he could not now deceive her. Added to this, the strange, silent alteration—which was only visible in his troubled countenance-took place at a time when she most needed his kindness, and that was on the day she had so unexpectedly met with Mrs. Gruff. Maria said but little ;-she only threw out reproaches against herself; and after many entreaties, she persuaded Godfrey to let her read the letter, which she knew he had received from Emma. She read it through to herself, her dark eyes brightening and expanding to their full lustre, while the colour forsook her cheeks; and when she had finished the last line, she fell back senseless upon the sofa, uttering but one exclamation, and that was, 'Oh, my God!' For a long time she remained cold as death; then changed to a high, burning fever. A doctor was sent for, and he did all that his skill could devise. The kind landlady attended upon her like a mother.

Here leave we her until the morrow. Godfrey Malvern sat up with her until long past midnight; then went home-a sad and sorrowful man-to his lodgings in Lock's Fields. How he reached home, he knew not-he thought not he seemed to walk as men do in their sleep;―he threaded his way through the dark streets without ever once thinking of where he was going; for his thoughts were then with the poor suffering Maria. He took out his latch-key, and opened the door, as he had before done scores of times: he walked up-stairs to his room, and it was not until a strong light flashed upon him from the open door, that he remembered where he was. Like a man awakening from a dream, he entered his apartment, and found himself clasped

suddenly by the arms of Emma. One kiss she gave him; then sank sobbing upon his bosom.

He spoke no kind word-he returned not her embrace; but with averted face, pressed his hand to his forehead, while every muscle of his fine countenance revealed his deep and silent agony. Even his little son (whom he had never before seen) seemed to stretch out his tiny arms as if to embrace his father, and to struggle to release himself from poor dear Cinderella. And there stood Godfrey Malvern, overwhelmed with shame, sorrow, and remorse. Guilt in the embrace of Innocence! without either power or will to resist its captor. If he had one thought which stood out from another at that moment, it was embodied in a wish that the earth might open and swallow him up for ever.

"What is the matter, my love?" said Emma, raising her head and gazing on him with a look of alarm, through her tears. "Oh, how very ill you look! Godfrey, do speak to me;-tell me the worst ;— something has happened ;-conceal it not from me, my dear husband;tell your own fond Emma ;-oh, speak to me, and him." She turned round, snatched up the child, and held it to her husband.

Godfrey made a motion with his hand, as if he entreated her to desist what he said was inaudible; and he sank upon a chair, burying his face in his hand. Emma bent over him, still holding the child in one arm, while with the other she encircled the neck of her husband, until gradually both her own weight and that of the child fell full upon Godfrey; and in removing his arm, he unconsciously encircled them both; and as Emma's foot slipt, she fell across his knee, with her face towards him, while the child lay between them, and one of its uplifted hands fell on the father's lips. He kissed the hand of the child, then drew Emma's face still closer, and heaving a deep sigh (a melancholy prelude), kissed her round, ripe lips, then burst into tears; while such a deep groan shook his bosom, as caused Emma to spring up in alarm; and giving the child to Cinderella, her arms in another moment encircled her husband.

But her arms

Godfrey felt a swimming sensation in the head—a dizziness that was fast verging towards a swoon-and a low, sinking pain about the heart, which seemed to make him feel weaker than a child; and he would have sunk upon the floor, if his wife had not held him. - her touch-her look-her voice-dispelled all this in an instant. He unloosed her hold gently, but firmly; and standing up, looked round and said, "I must leave you;" and without his hat, made towards the door.

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