"You speak warmly, signora," said the count, whose brow contracted. "You forget that I myself overheard him talking with some one over the wall of the garden only a few hours before the entrance of the burglars——"

"We have many cases upon record," interrupted Isabella enthusiastically, "in which men have been unjustly convicted on an almost miraculous combination of adverse circumstances. Suppose that Mr. Markham was, in the first instance, made the victim of rogues and villains, and sacrificed by them to screen their own infamy,—suppose he underwent his punishment in Newgate, being innocent,—will you sympathise with and commiserate him? or will you scorn and repulse him? Oh! my dear father, no kindness would be too great towards a being who has suffered through the fallibility of human laws! Suppose that one of the villains who plunged him—innocent—into all that misery, repented of the evil, and signed a confession of his own enormity and of Mr. Markham's guiltlessness;—then would you remain thus prejudiced? Oh! no—my dear father, you never would! your nature is too noble!"

"My dearest Isabella, let us drop this conversation. In the first place, it is not likely that your romantic idea of one of the villains whom you bring upon your fanciful stage, signing such a confession——"

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed Isabella, a ray of joy flashing from her large black eyes; "if such were the case——"

"Well—if such were the case," added the count impatiently, "the entire mystery of the burglary remains to be cleared up to my satisfaction; and therefore, with your permission, we will leave this subject—now, and for ever!"

Isabella's head dropped upon her bosom; and her countenance wore an expression of the most profound disappointment and grief.

Scarcely had the conversation thus received a rude check and the count resumed the perusal of his paper, when Sir Cherry Bounce and Captain Smilax Dapper were announced.

"Here we are—the two inseparables, strike me!" ejaculated the gallant hussar. "How is the signora this morning? somewhat melancholy—blow me!"

"It seems that you have nothing to make you melancholy, Captain Dapper," said the count, who did not experience the greatest possible amount of delight at the arrival of the two young gentlemen, although he was far too well bred to show his annoyance.

"Beg pardon, count—on the contrary, smite me!" returned Captain Dapper: "I have a great deal to be melancholy for. I lost six hundred pounds last night at cards—blow me for a fool that I was! I must confess, however, that I wasn't half awake."

"Yeth—and Thmilackth inthithted upon my thitting down and playing too; and I lotht thwenty poundth."

"And got scolded by your mamma into the bargain, for sitting up too late," said the captain.

"Nonthenth, Thmilackth!" exclaimed Sir Cherry; "I dare thay my mother allowth me ath gweat a lithenth ath your'th."

"Well we won't quarrel, Cherry," said the officer. "But what do you think, count? I and Cherry dined together at the Piazza, Covent-Garden, where we got the most unexceptionable turtle and the most approved venison. The iced punch was superlative—the charges, of course, comparative. Well, in the evening, while I and Cherry were sipping our claret—and Cherry was admitting confidentially to me that he really hates claret, and only drinks it because it is fashionable——"

"Oh! naughty Thmilackth!"

"Hold your tongue, Cherry. Well—a couple of gentlemen came into the coffee-room. There was no one else there besides me and Cherry and the new comers. So they began whispering together for a few moments; and at length one of them rushes forward, catches Cherry in his arms, and cries out, 'Oh! my dear Smith—my friend Smith—how glad I am to meet with you again!' Cherry coloured up to the eyes——"

"Oh! what an infamouth falthhood!"

"You did, and you were so frightened you could not speak a word. I was obliged to tell the loving gentleman that your name was not Smith; and then he begged pardon, and said he never saw in his life such a resemblance to an old school-fellow of his as Cherry was. Well, we laughed over the mistake: the two gentlemen rang for claret; and we all sate down to the same table together. We drank several bottles of wine, and then adjourned to another place to sink it all with brandy-and-water. Cherry was quite top-heavy; but I was as sober as a judge—"

"Why did you woll in the mud, then?"

"Why? because I tripped against a stone. Well, then we were foolish enough to go to a gambling-house with these gentlemen; and there I lost, and Cherry lost."

"And the two gentlemen won, I suppose?" said the count, drily.

"Oh! of course," answered Captain Dapper.

"How foolish of two mere boys like you to think of going to a gambling-house," exclaimed the count. "Do you not see that the two gentlemen who accosted you in so strange a manner in the coffee-room of an hotel, perceived you to be a couple of greenhorns?"

"They might have thought so of Cherry," cried the captain, colouring deeply, and twirling his moustachios; "but they couldn't have formed such an opinion of me—an officer in her majesty's service—strike, smite, and blow me!"

"I'm thure I don't look tho veway gween ath you think," said Sir Cherry Bounce, now falling into a sulky fit with his friend the officer.

"Oh! I know perfectly well that they were regular gentlemen," continued the captain; "for they gave us their cards; and one was Sir Rupert Harborough. The other was Mr. Chichester."

"Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester!" exclaimed Isabella, on whom the mention of these names produced a strange effect.

"Yes," answered Captain Dapper; "and so you see that they were proper gentlemen, and it was all luck. But strike such luck as mine!"

Isabella's countenance was suddenly irradiated with a gleam of the purest and most heart-felt joy;—the tears started to her eyes—but they were tears of happiness;—and, fearful that her emotions would be observed, she hurried from the room.

"Ah! but you didn't hear Cherry's adventure about the bird, did you, count?" demanded Dapper, still continuing the conversation.

The count shook his head.

"I don't thay Ma more than you do, Thmilackth," interrupted the youthful baronet.

"Yes, you do, Cherry," returned Dapper: "I have heard you a hundred times. But let me tell the story out. Well—Cherry's mamma exclaims, 'Lor, boy, what have you got there?'—'A Poluphloithboio, ma, that my fwiend Dawthon gave me.'—'A what, Cherry!' shrieks the old lady.—'A Poluphloithboio, ma,' answers Cherry, bringing the cage close up to his ma.—'A Poluphloisboio!' ejaculates mamma: 'why, you stupid boy, it is nothing more or less than a hideous old owl!'—and so it was: and there the monster sate upon the perch, blinking away at a furious rate and looking as stupid as—as Cherry himself—smite him!"

Isabella had returned to the apartment and resumed her seat a few moments before this story was finished; and Captain Dapper appeared very much annoyed and surprised that she did not condescend to laugh at the recital.

"By the by," he observed, after a moment's pause, "I have something to tell you all—strike me!"

"Oh! yeth—about Wichard Markham," said Sir Cherry.

The count made a movement of impatience; the countess looked up from her embroidery; and a deep blush mantled upon the cheek, and a sudden tremor passed through the frame, of the lovely Isabella.

"Yes—about Richard Markham," continued the hussar officer. "I and Cherry were riding in the neighbourhood of his house the other day—"

"And we thaw the two ath tweeth."

"Yes—and something else too;—for we saw one of the sweetest, prettiest, most interesting young ladies—the signora herself excepted—walking in the garden—"

"Well, well," said the count impatiently; "perhaps Mr. Markham is married, and you saw his wife—that is all."

"No," continued Dapper; "for she was close by the railings that skirt the side of the road running behind his house; and we saw an old butler-looking kind of a fellow go up to her, and I heard him call her 'Miss.'"

"Mr. Markham and his affairs are not of the slightest interest to us, Captain Dapper," said the count: "we do not even wish to hear his name mentioned. Isabella, my love, let us have some music."

But no reply was given to the request of the count, who was seated in such a way that he could not see his daughter's place at the work-table.

Isabella had again left the room.

Of what nature were the emotions which agitated the bosom of that beauteous—that amiable creature?

Wherefore had she first sought her own chamber to conceal tears of joy?

And why had she now retired once more, to hide the out-pourings of an intense anguish?

WHEN Isabella retired to her chamber the second time, she hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and then hurried to the garden at the back of the mansion; for she felt the necessity of fresh air, to cool her burning brow.

She walked slowly up and down for a few minutes, her mind filled with the most distressing thoughts, when the sounds of voices fell upon her ears. She listened; and the consequential tone of the hussar-captain, alternating with the childish lisp of Sir Cherry Bounce, warned her that the two young coxcombs had also directed their steps towards the garden.

She felt in no humour to listen to their chattering gossip—wearisome at all times, but intolerable in a moment of mental affliction; still she could not return to the house without encountering them in her way. A thought struck her—the gardener had been at work all the morning; and the back-gate of the enclosure had been left open for his convenience. Perhaps it was not locked again? Thither did she hurry; and, to her joy, the means of egress into the fields were open to her.

The delicate foot of that beauteous creature of seventeen scarcely made an impression upon the grass, nor even crushed the daisy, so light was her tread! And yet her heart was heavy. Grief sate upon her brow; and her bosom was agitated with sighs.

She walked onward; and, turning the angle of a grove, was now beyond the view of any one in her father's garden. She relaxed her speed, and moved slowly and mournfully along the outskirts of the grove, vainly endeavouring to conquer the sorrowful ideas that obtruded themselves on her imagination.

But Woe is an enemy that knows no remorse, gives no quarter, while it retains poor mortal in its grasp; and when its victim is a young and innocent girl, whose heart beats with its first, its virgin love,—that direful enemy augments its pangs in proportion to the tenderness and sensibility of that heart which it thus ruthlessly torments.

Isabella's reverie was suddenly interrupted by a deep sigh.

He sighed deeply, and his lips murmured some words, the sound of which, but not the meaning, met her ears.

She was about to retrace her steps, when her own name was pronounced by the lips of the person seated on the tree,—and in a tone, too, which she could not mistake.

"Oh! Isabella, Isabella, thou knowest not how I love thee!"

An exclamation of surprise—almost of alarm—burst from the lips of the beautiful Italian; and she leant for support against a tree.

Richard Markham—for it was by his lips that her name had been pronounced—raised his head, and gave vent to a cry of the most wild, the most enthusiastic joy.

In a moment he was by her side.

"Isabella!" he exclaimed: "to what good angel am I indebted for this unexpected joy—this immeasurable happiness?"

"Oh! Mr. Markham—forgive me if I intruded upon you—but, accident—"

"Call it not accident, Isabella: it was heaven!—heaven that prompted me to seek this spot to-day, for the first time since that fatal night—"

"Ah! that fatal night," repeated the signora, with a shudder.

Markham dropped the hand which he had taken—which he had pressed for a moment in his: and he retreated a few paces, his entire manner changing as if he were suddenly awakened to a sense of his humiliating condition.

"Signora," he said, in a low and tremulous tone, "is it possible that you can believe me guilty of the terrible deed which a monster imputed to me?"

"Oh! no, Mr. Markham," answered the young lady hastily; "I never for an instant imagined so vile—so absurd an accusation to be based upon truth."

"Thank you, signora—thank you a thousand times for that avowal," exclaimed Richard. "Oh! how have I longed for an opportunity to explain to you all that has hitherto been dark and mysterious relative to myself:—how have I anticipated a moment like this, when I might narrate to you the history of all my sorrows—all my wrongs, and part with you—either bearing away the knowledge of your sympathy to console me, or of your scorn to crush me down into the very dust!"

"Oh! Mr. Markham, I cannot hear you—I dare not stay another moment here," said Isabella, excessively agitated. "My father's anger—"

"I will not detain you, signora," interrupted Richard, coldly. "Obey the will of your parents; and if—some day—you should learn the narrative of my sorrows from some accidental source, then—when you hear how cruelly circumstances combined, and how successfully villains leagued to plunge me into an abyss of infamy and disgrace,—then, signora, then reflect upon my prayer to be allowed to justify myself to you to-day—a prayer which obedience to your parents compels you to reject."

"To me, Mr. Markham, no explanation is necessary," said Isabella, timidly, and with her eyes bent towards the ground so that the long black fringes reposed upon her cheeks.

"Oh! fool that I was to flatter myself that you would hear me—or to hope that you would listen to aught which I might say to justify myself!" ejaculated Markham. "Pardon me, signora—pardon my presumption; but I judged your heart by mine—I measured your sympathy, your love, by what I feel;—and I have erred—yes, I have erred—but you will pardon me! Oh! how could the freed convict dare to hope that the daughter of a noble—a lady of spotless name, and high birth—should for a moment stoop to him? Ah! I indulged in a miserable delusion! And yet how sweet was that dream in my solitary hours! for you must know, lady, that I have fed myself with hopes—with wild insane hopes—until my soul has been comforted, and for a season I have forgotten my wrongs, deep—ineffaceable though they be! I thought to myself—'There is one being in this cold and cheerless world who will not put faith in all that calumny proclaims against me,—one being who, having read my heart, will know that I have suffered for a deed which I never committed, and from which my soul revolts,—one being who can understand how it is possible for me to have been unfortunate but never criminal,—one being whose sympathy follows me amidst the hatred and scorn of others,—one being in a word, who would not refuse to hear from my lips a sad history, and who would be prepared to find it filled with sorrows, but not stained with infamy!'—Such were my thoughts—such was my hope—such was my delusive dream: O God! that I had never yielded to so bright a vision! It is now dissipated; and I can well understand, lady—now—that no explanation is indeed necessary!"

"Mr. Markham," said Isabella, in a voice scarcely audible through deep emotion,—"Mr. Markham—you misunderstand me—I did not mean that I would hear no explanation;—Oh! very far from that—"

"But that it would be now useless!" exclaimed Markham, his tone softening, for he saw that the lovely idol of his heart was deeply touched. "You mean, signora, that all explanation would be now too late; that, whether innocent or guilty of the crime for which I suffered two years' cruel imprisonment, I am so surrounded by infamy—my name is so encrusted with odium, and scorn, and disgrace, that to associate with me—to be seen for a moment near me, is a moral contagion—a plague—a pestilence—"

"Oh! spare me—spare me these reproaches," cried Isabella, now weeping bitterly; "for reproaches they are—and most unjust ones, too!"

"Unjust ones!" exclaimed Richard; "what mean you, signora?"

"That by me at least they are undeserved, Mr. Markham," returned the lovely girl.

"How undeserved? how unjust?" said Richard, eagerly catching at the first straw which presented itself upon the ocean that had wrecked all his hopes; "did you not say that no explanation was now necessary?"

"Nor was it ever," answered Isabella, whose voice was almost entirely subdued by her emotions; "for I never—never believed the accusations which you seek to explain away!"

"My God! do I hear aright? or am I again the sport of a delusive vision?" cried Richard; then, advancing towards Isabella, he took her hand, and said, "Signora, repeat what you ere now averred, that I may believe my own ears! You believe that I was the victim of villains, and not a vile—degraded—base criminal?"

"Such has been, and ever would have been my belief—even without a proof," replied Isabella.

"The confession of one of the wretches who wronged you—the narrative of the man named Talbot!" answered the Italian, casting a glance of sympathy—of tender sympathy—upon her lover.

"And now, O God, I thank thee!" said Markham, his eyes filling with tears, and his heart a prey to feelings of an indescribable nature: "O God, I thank thee—how sincerely, devoutly I thank thee, thou well knowest, for thou canst read the secrets of my soul! And you, Isabella—dearest Isabella—Oh! can you forgive me, that I dared for a moment to suspect your generous soul—that I doubted your noble disposition?"

"Forgive you, Richard!" exclaimed the charming girl, smiling through her tears: "Oh! how can you ask me?"

"And thus, my Isabella, you know all!"

"I know all—how deeply you were wronged, how fearfully you have suffered."

"Isabella, you are an angel!" cried Markham, rapturously.

"Nay—do not flatter me," said the signora. "I have but obeyed the dictates of my own convictions—and—"

"Speak, Isabella—speak!"

"And of my own heart," she added, casting down her eyes, and blushing. "You left the confession of that Talbot behind you—on the fatal night——"

"Oh! I remember now; and since then, how often have I deplored its loss."

"My own maid found it, and gave it to me on the following morning. Since then, I have read it very—very often!" said Isabella. "But now—I will return it to you—I will find some opportunity to forward it you."

"Not for worlds, Isabella!" cried Markham. "If you still love me—if you still deem me worthy of your regard—keep it, keep it as a pledge that you believe me to be innocent!"

"Yes, Richard, I will keep it—keep it for you," said Isabella. "But do not think that your cause is without advocates at our abode. My mother believes that you were wronged, and not guilty—"

"Oh, Isabella! then there is yet hope!"

"But my father—my father," continued the signora, mournfully; "he will not hear our arguments in your favour. It was only an hour ago that my mother and myself reasoned with him upon the subject; but, alas! he—who is so good and so just in all other respects,—he is obdurate and inexorable in this!"

"Time, sweetest girl, will do much; and now my soul is filled with hope! Oh! how I rejoice that accident should have thrown in your way the very proof that confirmed the opinion which your goodness suggested in my favour."

"And not that proof alone," said Isabella; "for even this very morning, a circumstance confirmed the assertion, that the two men who were associated with Talbot in making you the blind instrument of their infamous schemes, are characters of the very worst description. Captain Dapper and his young friend were plundered by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester last evening at a gambling-house."

"Oh! there is no enormity of which those villains are not capable!" said Markham.

"But while I speak of Captain Dapper," observed Isabella, suddenly assuming an air of restraint and embarrassment, "I am reminded of another piece of information which he gave me, and which nearly concerns yourself."

"Concerns me, Isabella! What can it be?"

"Nay—I know not whether it would be discreet—indeed, I am confident that——"

"Speak, Isabella—speak unreservedly. Do you wish any explanation from me? have you heard any further aspersions upon my character? Speak, Isabella—speak: your own noble confidence merits an equally unreserved frankness on my part."

"No, Richard—dear Richard," said the lovely Italian, in a bewitching tone of tenderness; "I was wrong—very wrong to allude to so idle, so silly an assertion;—and yet—and yet it grieved me—deeply at the moment."

"My dearest Isabella, I implore you to speak. Let there be no secrets between you and me."

"No—Richard—I will not insult you—"

"Insult me, Isabella? Impossible!"

"Yes—insult you with a suspicion—"

"Ah! some falsehood of that Captain Dapper," exclaimed Markham. "Pray give me an opportunity of explaining away any impression—"

"Oh! no impression, Richard;—only a moment's uneasiness;—and, if you will compel me to tell you—even at the risk of appearing a jealous, suspicious creature in your eyes—"

"Ah, Isabella, if it be nothing but jealousy," said Richard, with a smile of satisfaction, "I am well pleased; for there would not be jealousy without love; and thus, the former is a proof of the latter."

"Then, Captain Dapper observed that he was riding near your abode the other day; and he saw a young and very beautiful lady in your garden——"

"And he said truly, Isabella," interrupted Markham: "he, no doubt, saw Miss Monroe, who, with her venerable father, is residing at my house—through charity, Isabella—through charity! No tongue can tell the miseries which those poor creatures had endured, until I forced them to come and take up their abode with me. Mr. Monroe was my guardian—and by his speculations did I lose my fortune;—but never have I borne him ill-will—and now—"

"Say no more, Richard," exclaimed Isabella: "you have a noble heart—and never, never will I mistrust it!"

"And you love me, Isabella? and you will ever love me? and you will never be another's?"

"Do you require oaths, and vows, and protestations, Richard?" said the young lady, tenderly: "if so, you shall have them. But my own feelings—my own sentiments are the best guarantee of my actions towards you!"

"Oh! I believe you—dearest, dearest Isabella!" cried the young man, enthusiastically, his handsome countenance irradiated with a glow of animation which set off his proud style of male beauty to its fullest extent; "I believe you; and you have rendered me supremely happy, for you have taught me to have confidence in myself—you have led me to believe that I am worthy of even such an angel as you! Oh! dearest Isabella, you know not how sweet it is to be beloved by a pure and virgin heart like yours! If my wrongs—my injuries—my sufferings—have taught thee to feel one particle of sympathy the more for me, then am I proud of the sad destinies that have so touched that tender heart of thine! But say, Isabella—say, when shall we meet again?"

"Now, Isabella—now," exclaimed Richard, "I comprehend all that is great and noble in your disposition. Yes—it shall be as you say, my ever dear Isabella; and the mental contemplation of your virtue will teach me to appreciate the love of such a heart as yours."

"We must now separate, dear Richard," said Isabella: "I have already remained too long away from home! But one word ere you depart:—that miscreant who made so fearful an accusation against you on the fatal night when you left my father's dwelling——"

"He is no more, Isabella," answered Markham: "at least I have every reason to believe that when the police, instructed by me, discovered his dwelling, three months ago, the villain terminated his existence in a manner that corresponded well with the whole tenour of his life. The den of infamy which he inhabited, was blown up with gunpowder, the moment after the officers of justice entered it; and there can be no doubt that he, together with one of his accomplices, perished in the ruin that was produced by his own hand. Several constables met their death at the same time; and, according to information gathered from the neighbours, an old woman—believed to be the miscreant's mother—was also in the house at the time of the explosion."

"How fearful are the ways of crime!" said Isabella, with a shudder. "May God grant that in future you will have no enemies to cross your path! And now, farewell, Richard—farewell. We shall meet again soon—Providence will not desert us!"

Richard pressed his lips to those of that charming girl, and bade her adieu.

She tore herself—now reluctantly!—away from him, and hastily retraced her steps towards the mansion.

But ere she passed the angle of the grove, she turned and waved her handkerchief to her lover.

The young man kissed his hand fondly to the idol of his heart: and in another moment Isabella was out of sight.

That one half-hour of bliss, which Richard had thus passed with the Italian lady, was a reward for weeks—months—years of anguish and of sorrow!

DURING the ensuing three months nothing occurred worthy of record, in connexion with any character that has figured upon the stage of our narrative.

The month of July arrived: and found Tomlinson, the banker, more deeply involved in difficulties than ever. The result was that the consultations between him and old Michael, the cashier, were of very frequent occurrence; and the latter grew more morose, more dirty, and more addicted to snuff in proportion as the affairs of the bank became the more desperate.

One morning, in the first week of July, Tomlinson arrived at the banking-house half an hour earlier than usual. He had taken home the cash-books with him on the preceding evening, for the purpose of ascertaining his true position; and he brought them back again in the morning before any of the clerks had arrived, with the exception of old Michael Martin, who was already waiting for him when he entered the parlour.

"Well, Michael, my old friend," said Tomlinson, on whose countenance the marks of care and anxiety were now too visibly traced, "I am afraid that the establishment cannot possibly exist many days longer. Mr. Greenwood will be here presently: and he is my only hope."

"Hope indeed!" growled Martin, plunging his fore-finger and thumb into his capacious snuff-box: "how he left you to shift for yourself after you gave that security to Count Alteroni."

"Which security fell due a few days ago; and a note from the count, received yesterday, tells me that he shall call upon me next Saturday at twelve o'clock for the amount."

"He is very welcome to call—and so are a good many others," said Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."

"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael—is there any resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method—"

"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the workhouse;"—and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.

"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no—impossible! Do not say that, my good old friend."

"I do say it, though;"—and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's cheeks.

This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.

Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man—at all events, not a bad-hearted man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man touched him to the soul.

"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved something out of that—you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind, and whose expenses are so very limited."

The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount runs over nine years; and the amount is £540."

"What—is it possible?" cried Tomlinson: "you have only paid yourself £60 a-year."

"And that was too much for the state of the bank," said the cashier drily, taking a pinch of snuff at the same time.

"Now of all things which combine to make me wretched at this moment," said Tomlinson, "your position is the most afflicting."

"What shall we both do?" cried the banker. "But so long as I have a crust, you shall not want."

"Well—well, there's enough of that," almost growled the cashier, though his furrowed cheeks were still moist with tears. "I am an old man, and my wants are few. A bit of bread and a pinch of snuff are enough for me. But you—you, who have always lived like a gentleman,—how can you stand it?"

"And is it literally come to this? Is there no resource?"

"Do you see any? I do not. Will your father help you?"

"Not with another sixpence."

"Will Greenwood?"

"Here he comes to answer for himself."

Mr. Greenwood entered the parlour, and old Michael, taking his cash-books under his arm, withdrew.

The member of parliament threw himself into a chair, and observed what a beautiful morning it was.

Tomlinson made a movement of impatience, and yet dared not ask the question that trembled upon his tongue, and the answer to which would decide his fate.

"Yes," continued Greenwood, "it is a lovely morning: all nature seems enlivened, and every body is inspired with a congenial feeling."

"What nonsense is this, Greenwood?" cried the banker. "Do you come to taunt a man upon the brink of ruin, with the happiness of others?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear Tomlinson. I really was waiting for you to question me upon matters of business; and in the mean time made use of some observations of common courtesy and politeness."

"The fact is, that since you obtained a seat in Parliament your manners have altogether changed. But please to put me out of suspense at once:—have you considered my proposal?"

"I have—maturely."

"And what is your decision?"

"That I cannot agree to it."

"I thought as much," said Tomlinson. "Well—now I have no alternative. I must close the bank and appear in the Gazette."

"And when you are cleared by a certificate, I will enable you to set up in some business again."

"Upon that promise, Mr. Greenwood," said Tomlinson, severely, "I place no reliance—no reliance whatever."

"Just as you please," returned Greenwood coolly.

"How can I?" cried the banker. "When I gave my security for you to Count Alteroni, and relieved you of a burden of fifteen thousand pounds, you faithfully promised to assist me. Did you keep your word?"

"Did I not forgive you a debt which would have ruined you that very day?"

"True. But you were an immense gainer! You obtained twelve thousand pounds by the transaction. However, I shall be compelled to give an account of the transaction to the Bankruptcy Court."

"An avowal which will do you no good, and will only expose me," observed Greenwood, alarmed by this declaration.

"And why should I have any regard for you?" demanded Tomlinson, with that moroseness which men in his desperate condition are so frequently known to manifest towards intriguers more fortunate than themselves.

"I will tell you why you should have some regard for me," answered Greenwood. "In the first place, the mere fact of your having so long carried on this bank when in a helpless state of insolvency, thereby increasing your liabilities in a desperate manner, and receiving deposits the eventual repayment of which each day became less likely, will so irritate the mass of your creditors that you will never obtain your certificate. Secondly, unless you have a friendly trade-assignee, you will obtain no allowance out of the wrecks of the property, and you will find it difficult, considering the state your books must be in, to make up a balance sheet that would stand the remotest chance of passing."

"True—true," said Tomlinson: "my condition is really desperate."

"Not so desperate as you imagine," resumed Greenwood: "I will be your friend—I will save you, if you only follow my counsel."

"Ah! my good friend," cried the despairing man, "forgive me the expressions which fell from my lips just now."

"Do not mention that circumstance; I make every allowance for the irritated state of your feelings. In the first place, then, you can make me a creditor to the amount of thirty thousand pounds, and two or three of my friends creditors to an equal amount in the aggregate. We shall be enabled to give you your certificate, together with those persons who will not bear you animosity or whom we can talk over. In the second place, I can apply to be appointed trade-assignee; and I flatter myself—considering my position, representing as I do a free, enlightened, and independent constituency—my nomination will not be opposed."

"If you could only contrive that," said Tomlinson, "I might pass my second examination in even a creditable manner; and afterwards—"

"And afterwards open as a stock-broker," added Greenwood. "That is the invariable resource of all bankrupt bankers; and what is more extraordinary, they obtain confidence and succeed too. Tradesmen who are unfortunate, always take to the wine, coal, or discount business, each of which can be commenced without a shilling; but your aim must be a broker's profession. It is so genteel—so comfortable: a hole of an office in the City, and a villa at Clapham or Kensington;—a mutton chop at the Dining-rooms in Hercules Passage at one, and turtle and venison at home at six. Ah! the life of a stock-broker is a very pleasant one!"

"I am sure the life of an insolvent banker is not," said Tomlinson, again rendered rather impatient by Mr. Greenwood's discursiveness.

"A thousand pounds will set you up comfortably again," continued Greenwood; "and that you shall have. Only follow my advice—and I will be the making of you. In the meantime, you had better not struggle against fortune any longer in this position. What is to-day? Thursday. Very well. I will strike a docket against you this very afternoon: the fiat can be opened to-morrow morning; and to-morrow evening you can be in the Gazette. Is that agreed?"

"Agreed!" exclaimed Tomlinson bitterly: "I have no resource left but that! Yes—it shall be as you say. But for God's sake, talk not in so cold and heartless a manner of the mode of procedure."

"I am in your hands," said Tomlinson. "Your advice shall now guide me altogether. But when I think upon the ruin and desolation my failure will cause—the widows and the orphans whom it will reduce to beggary—the poor tradesmen whom it will involve in inextricable difficulties,—it is enough to drive me mad."

"Pooh! pooh! my good fellow," said Greenwood; "these little things happen every day. As for the widows and the orphans, allow me to remind you that the wisdom and goodness of the legislative bodies—to one of which I have the honour to belong as the representative of an intelligent and independent constituency—have established asylums for the reception of persons so reduced, and where they enjoy every comfort, upon the trifling condition of doing a little needle-work, or breaking a few stones."

"Greenwood—Greenwood, do not speak in this heartless manner! Oh! the idea that my failure will render your words literally true—that numbers will be thereby reduced to the workhouse of which you speak,—it is this, it is this that overwhelms me!"

"You are very silly to give way to your feelings in this manner. Why do you know (and I may as well mention it by way of consolation in respect to the widows and orphans whose fate you deplore)—that the workhouses are conducted at present upon the most liberal principle possible? Do you know that the female inmates are handsomely remunerated for the shirts which they make—that they can make a shirt in a day and a half, and that they receive one farthing for each? That is their pocket-money—their little perquisites, my dear fellow;—so you perceive that the workhouse is not such a bad place after all."

Tomlinson was pacing the bank-parlour in an abstracted mood, and paid not the slightest attention to this tirade from the lips of the newly-fledged politician.

Mr. Greenwood saw that his observations were unheeded, and accordingly rose to take his departure. Tomlinson gave him a bill for a thousand pounds to enable him to strike a docket against him; and Mr. Greenwood then withdrew.

The moment he was gone, old Michael entered the room; and Tomlinson communicated to him all that had passed. The cashier made no reply, but took the largest pinch of snuff he had ever yet abstracted from his box or conveyed to his nose.

He had not yet broken silence, when the door opened, and Mr. Greenwood returned. Michael was about to withdraw; but the capitalist stopped him, saying, "Stay—three heads are better than two. I was just entering my cabriolet, when an idea—a brilliant idea struck me."

"An idea!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "what—to save me?"

"To render your failure legitimate—to make you appear an honourable, but an unfortunate man—to avert all blame from you—"

"Ah! if that could be done," interrupted the banker, his countenance animated with hope, "I might yet be spared the execrations of the widow and the orphan!"

"Ever your widows and orphans, my dear fellow," said Greenwood: "you are really quite sickening."

"Well—well—the idea?"

"Nothing is more simple," continued Greenwood. "You leave the bank this afternoon at five, as usual: Michael sees all safe, and takes his departure also. You leave fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes in the strong box, together with securities of foreign houses at Leipzig, Vienna, Turin, New York, Rio Janeiro, Calcutta, Sydney——"

"Greenwood, have you come back to mock a miserable—ruined man?"

"Quite the contrary. Listen! You leave money and securities to the amount of ninety-two thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven pounds—or any odd sum, to look well—safe in the strong box, together with the cash-books. You and Michael come in the morning—or perhaps it would be better to allow one of the clerks to arrive first,—and, behold! the bank has been broken into during the night—the money, the securities, and the books are all gone—and the bank stops as a natural consequence!"

"Impossible—impossible!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "it could never be done! I could not proclaim such a fraud without a blush that would betray me. What say you, Michael?"

The old cashier answered only with a grunt, and took snuff as it were by handfuls.

"What say you, Michael?" repeated Tomlinson, impatiently.

"I say that it can be done—ought to be done—and must be done," replied the old man. "I would sooner die than see the honour of the house lost—and that will save it."

"Well said, Michael," exclaimed Greenwood. "Now, Tomlinson, your decision?"

"It is a fearful alternative—and yet—and yet, it is preferable to infamy—disgrace——"

"Then you agree?"

"And if I agree—where are the means of executing the scheme? Who will rob—or affect to rob the premises?"

"That must be arranged by yourselves. The back of this house looks upon a court. The thieves can have effected their entrance through these parlour windows: the parlour doors will be found forced; the safe will have been broken open. Nothing can be more simple."

"Yes—I know how to manage it all," exclaimed old Martin, who had been ruminating more seriously than ever for the last few moments. "Mr. Greenwood, you have saved the honour of the bank, which I love as if it was my own child;"—and the cashier wrung the hand of the member of Parliament with a warmth indicative of an amount of feeling which he had never been known to demonstrate before.

"Well—I have given you the hint—do you profit by it," said Greenwood; and with these words he departed.

And as he drove back to the West-End, he said to himself, "Tomlinson will now be completely in my power, and will never dare confess the real nature of the transaction relative to Count Alteroni's fifteen thousand pounds. According to the first arrangement proposed, a bullying counsel or an astute Commissioner might have wormed out of him the exact truth; whereas, now—now his lips are silenced on that head for ever!"

The moment Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael accosted Tomlinson, and said "Have you full confidence in me?"