"In this situation I remained for three years. The master was very good to us, and gave us a present every time he effected large sales by our means. One afternoon an elderly gentleman entered the mart, and stood bidding for some cut decanters. They had been invoiced to the proprietor of the establishment for six shillings, and the lowest price at which they were to be knocked down was two pounds ten. The bidding was rather slow; and I retreated a pace or two behind the old gentleman, to avoid having the appearance of being anxious to make myself conspicuous. In that position I observed the corner of a red pocket-book peeping out of his coat tail. I glanced around: no one noticed me; and in a moment I abstracted the inviting object. This was the first theft I ever committed; and bad as I already was, the moment I had that pocket-book safe in my possession, I would have given the world for it to have been back again in its former place. The deed was however done; and I evaporated from the auction mart with the rapidity of thought.

"I was not such an idiot as to return to my lodgings; but I hastened into the vicinity of Smithfield, and entered a public-house in Chick Lane. The parlour—a little slip, with a single window looking upon the street—was fortunately empty; and I immediately examined my treasure. And true enough it was a treasure! It contained eight hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, together with bills of exchange to the amount of three thousand. There were also letters and cards of address, which showed me who the old gentleman was. He was a rich landholder in the county of Hants. I enclosed the bills of exchange and the letters in a sheet of paper, and returned them through the post to their owner. The Bank notes I kept. But I was now at a loss how to act; for I fancied that if the notes had been stopped, there would be danger in attempting to pass them. After I had put the letter in the post, I returned to the public-house in Chick Lane, and meditated upon the best course to pursue. While I was sitting in the parlour, over a glass of brandy-and-water, pondering upon this very difficult matter, a man entered, sate down, called for some liquor, and got into conversation with me. By degrees we grew confidential; and he let me know that he was a member of the swell-mob. I opened my heart to him; and he immediately offered to take me to a place where I could change my notes.

"I thankfully accepted his proposal; and he led me into Field Lane. There he entered a shop where they sold salt fish, herrings, haddocks, and oysters. He asked a dirty-looking girl if Israel Moses was at home; and, receiving an affirmative answer, led the way up a narrow, dark, and dirty staircase, to a room where an old Jew, with a face almost completely concealed by grisly white hair, was sitting at a table covered with papers. My guide immediately communicated to him the object of my visit; and the old Jew questioned me closely relative to the way in which I had obtained the Bank notes. My companion advised me to tell him the exact truth, which I did; and the Jew then offered me six hundred pounds in gold for my eight hundred pounds' worth of notes. He explained to me that he should be compelled to send them to his agents in Paris, Hamburgh, and Amsterdam, to get rid of them; and that he could therefore afford to give me no more. I accepted his proposal, received the gold, and departed, accompanied by my new friend, who was no other than Dick Flairer.

"I made him a handsome present for his counsel and assistance, and was about to part from him, when he told me that I had better take care of myself for a few days until the hue and cry concerning the pocket-book should be over. He asked me to accompany him to his lodgings in Castle Street, Saffron Hill. I agreed; and there I first met his sister Mary. In the evening Dick went out, to ascertain, as he said, 'how the wind blew.' He came back at a late hour, and brought me a copy of a hand-bill that had been printed and circulated, and which gave not only a full description of the robbery, but also a most painfully accurate account of my person. Dick assured me that I was not safe in his lodgings, as he himself was a suspicious character in the neighbourhood; and he advised me to hide myself in a certain house which he knew in Chick Lane. I followed his advice, and proceeded to the Old House, where I lay concealed in that horrid dungeon under ground for a mortal fortnight. Mary brought me my food every other day, and gave me information of what was going on outside. She told me that the newspapers had published an account of the return of the bills of exchange and letters by post; and that the same organs stated that the old gentleman who had been robbed was unwilling to proceed any farther on that very account. At length Dick came himself, and assured me that I might leave the dungeon; but that it would be better for me to remain quiet in some snug place for a few weeks. I proposed to him a trip into the country; he agreed; and Mary accompanied us.

"We went down to Canterbury, and took lodgings on the Herne Bay road, close by the barracks. Dick and I used to visit all the neighbouring towns, and see what we could pick up; but we led a jovial life, spending much more than we got, and thus making desperate inroads into my funds. My old habits of gambling returned; and the gold which I had received from the Jew was disappearing very rapidly. We had left London for upwards of eight months, when we thought of returning to our old haunts. Mary seemed quite averse to the proposal, and was most anxious to remain a short time longer where she was. To this Dick agreed; and he and I came up to town. We went to the Boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, and there took up our quarters. Dick introduced me to Bill Bolter; and as it happened that our funds were all low, we resolved upon adopting some means to replenish our purses. Happening to take up the Times, I saw an advertisement, according to which a wealthy jeweller and goldsmith in the Strand required a porter. I made a remark which led Dick Flairer to observe, that if I chose to take the situation, he could get me a reference, as he knew one of the largest linen-drapers in Norton Folgate, who was in the habit of buying stolen goods of the cracksmen of Dick's gang, and would not dare refuse to perform the part required. The plan was settled: I applied for the situation, gave the reference, and in two days entered the service of the rich goldsmith. In less than a fortnight I had obtained all the information I required; and stepping out one evening, I hastened to the boozing-ken, where I met the pals, and appointed the following night for the enterprise. I then returned to my master's residence.

"We were greatly grieved to think that our enterprise in the jeweller's house should have failed, and that we had lost so excellent a fellow as Flairer; but in the midst of our lamentations, the door opened and Dick himself entered the room. Pale, dripping, and exhausted, he fell upon a seat, and would most probably have fainted—if not died—had we not forced some brandy down his throat. He then revived; and, having changed his clothes, was soon completely recovered from the effects of his bath, and the desperate exertions he had made to swim to a wharf communicating with the Commercial Road.

"We staid for the remainder of the night at the Old House; and on the following morning Dick Flairer went up to the boozing-ken, where he procured a newspaper. He then returned to us; and we perceived by the journal that the curtains of the bed-room which I had occupied at the jeweller's house had caught fire, and created the alarms which had interrupted us in the midst of our employment in the shop. I moreover ascertained that I was of course suspected of having admitted thieves into the premises, and that a reward was offered for my apprehension. I was accordingly compelled to remain concealed for some weeks in the Old House, while Bolter and Flairer, being unsuspected, were enabled to go abroad. I did not upon this occasion conceal myself in the dungeon of the Old House, for I could not bear the solitude of that living tomb; and as Bolter and Flairer were constantly visiting me, the time did not hang so very heavily on my hands. At length I left the Old House, and I and Dick returned to Canterbury.

"When we arrived there, after an absence of two months, we made a most unpleasant discovery—unpleasant to Dick as the brother, and to me who was enamoured of Mary. She was in a way to become a mother; her situation was too palpable to be concealed. Dick flew into a most ungovernable rage; and Mary tried to deny it. But the fact was glaring, and she was obliged to confess that she had been seduced by a serjeant of the regiment stationed at Canterbury. Her attachment to that man, and the hope that he would do her justice, were the reasons that had induced her to remain at Canterbury, when we went to London. The serjeant had recently treated her with neglect and indifference, and she longed for revenge. Dick and I swore that she should have it. She told us that the serjeant was very fond of angling, and that every morning early he indulged in his favourite sport in the river Stour, which flowed close by the barracks.

"Next morning Dick and I went down to the river, and there we saw the serjeant preparing his tackle. From the description we had received of him, we knew him to be the man we wanted; but there was a large water-mill close by, and we dared not attack him in a spot that was so overlooked. We accordingly returned home, and consulted together how we should proceed. At length we resolved that Mary should endeavour to get him to grant her an interview on the banks of the river. She sent him a note, saying that she was to leave Canterbury in a few days, and that she wished to see him once more. She concluded by begging him to meet her that evening or the next between nine and ten o'clock, close by the bridge of Kingsford's water-mill. He consented, and appointed the evening of the next day for the interview.

"Next day, the body of the serjeant was found, fearfully crushed and mutilated, a mile below the mill, entangled in a bed of osiers. It was carried to the barracks: an inquest was called; and a verdict of 'Found Drowned' was recorded. Not a suspicion was entertained that the man had been murdered, it being evident from the surgical examination that he had been crushed by the wheel of the mill, upon which it was supposed he had accidentally fallen, over the bridge-railing, which was only about three feet high.

"The moment the verdict was returned, and we saw that no suspicion attached to any body in reference to the murder, we left Canterbury, and repaired to London. In the course of a few weeks, Mary became the mother of a still-born child; and in due time I assured her that I would overlook her fault, and marry her if she would have me. She was pleased with the proposal; and Dick readily agreed to it. But before we could be spliced, I one day met the goldsmith of the Strand in the street; and he gave me into custody. I was taken before the magistrates, and fully committed for an attempt to rob my employer. While I was in Newgate, waiting for my trial, I was greatly alarmed lest the old gentleman, whom I had robbed at the auction mart, should prefer an indictment against me; but my fears in this respect were unfounded. At length the sessions commenced, and I was put upon my trial. The Sheriffs had supplied me with counsel, for I was completely without funds when I was arrested. The barrister thus retained in my behalf, advised me to plead guilty, as I should then stand a good chance of escaping transportation. I followed his recommendation, and expressed my contrition for the offence. The Recorder read me a long lecture, and condemned me to seven years' transportation, which sentence was commuted to two years' imprisonment in Newgate.

"During that time I seriously thought of mending my ways, when I should be once more at liberty. But I could not conceive what on earth I should do for a livelihood if I did not steal. I knew that I should be turned adrift without a penny in my pocket; and I had no friends but those with whom I could only pursue my old career. When the chaplain spoke to me upon the errors of my past life, and the necessity of reformation, I used to say to him, 'Show me, reverend sir, how I am to obtain an honest living when I leave these walls, and I never shall sin again.' But he always gave an evasive reply. In fact, what could he say? If he had required a man-servant—a groom—an errand-boy—a menial scrub to black his boots and brush his clothes, would he have taken me? No. If he had known any friend who wanted a man to take care of his hounds—never enter his house—but sleep in the kennels along with the dogs, would the chaplain have recommended me? No. If the governor of Newgate had needed a man to sweep the dirt away from the front of the prison, would the reverend gentleman have spoken a kind word in favour of me? No. Of what use, then, is it for these gaol chaplains to preach penitence and reformation, when by their very actions they say, 'We do not believe that you can possibly change for the better?' Of what benefit is it for these salaried moralists to declaim upon the advantages of a virtuous course, when they know perfectly well that the old maxim is invariably correct,—'Give a dog a bad name and hang him!' Virtue must be fed; but Virtue, upon leaving the walls of a criminal prison, can obtain no food. Must Virtue, then die of starvation? Human nature revolts against this self-destruction—this systematic suicide; and, sooner than submit to it, Virtue will allow itself to be changed by circumstances into Vice. Virtue in this case has no option but to become Vice.

"I often thought, when I was in prison, that if there was a workshop, established by the government to receive persons whom the criminal gaols daily vomit back upon society, many a miserable creature would in reality reform, and be saved from a re-plunge into the sea of crime. But all that the government does is to punish. I mentioned these thoughts to the chaplain. And what did he say? He endeavoured to get rid of the necessity of giving a decisive opinion, by throwing himself headlong into a mass of argument and reasoning, half religious and half political, which I could not understand. Thus do those men invariably extricate themselves from perplexing topics. In my opinion there is no mockery more abominable—no hypocrisy more contemptible—no morality more baseless than the attributes of a gaol-chaplain!

"If good and pious men attended criminal prisons of their own free will, and talked in a plain homely manner to the inmates,—a manner which those inmates could understand,—how much benefit might result! But when you think that the chaplain only troubles himself about you because he is paid,—that he doles out his doctrine in proportion to the income which he receives,—and that he says the same to you to-day which he said to another yesterday, and will say to a third to-morrow,—his office is mean, contemptible, and degrading.

"It does not do for me to hold forth in this manner; I know that: but I cannot help expressing the thoughts that occupied me when I was in Newgate. They are often present in my memory; and, sometimes, when I am dull and in low spirits, I console myself by the conviction that if I am bad now, it is because there is no door open for me to be good. So a truce to these ideas. They do not often come from my lips; and even now I scarcely wish to recall them.

"Well—I passed my two years in Newgate; and when I was released, I stood still by the lamp-post at the top of the Old Bailey, thinking which way I should go. I had not a penny in my pocket; and I knew that in the course of a few hours I should be hungry. As true as I am sitting here, tears rolled down my cheeks as I contemplated the necessity of returning to my old pursuits,—yes—burning tears—tears of agony—such tears as I never shed before, and shall never shed again!

"Suddenly a thought struck me. I would go to the workhouse. The idea consoled me; and, fearful lest my good intentions should grow cool, I turned back past the door of Newgate again, and directed my steps down the Old Bailey towards Blackfriars' Bridge. In the course of an hour, I knocked at the door of the —— Workhouse, with an order for admission from the overseer.

"I stayed in the workhouse six weeks; and could stand it no longer. I had to labour, and was half-starved. So one morning I went to the Master, demanded my clothes, and was speedily retracing my steps towards my old haunts. That evening I supped with Dick Flairer at the boozing-ken on Saffron Hill; and the same night we broke into a watchmaker's shop in the City. We got seventeen pounds in money, and a dozen watches and other trinkets, which we sold to the 'fence' in Field Lane for thirty guineas. That was a good bargain for him! I then went and took up my quarters with Dick Flairer at his lodgings; and in a few weeks I married his sister Mary. Six or eight months afterwards poor Dick was killed; and—"

THE Buffer was interrupted at this point by the return of his wife, who in spite of the protection of the Resurrection Man's umbrella, was dripping wet.

We must observe that we have taken the liberty of altering and improving the language, in which the Buffer delivered his autobiography, to the utmost of our power: we have moreover embodied his crude ideas and reduced his random observations into a tangible shape. We should add that the man was not deficient in intellectual sharpness, in spite of the stolid expression of his countenance; and thus the observations which he made relative to prison discipline and the neglect of government to adopt means of preventing crime in preference to punishing it when committed, need excite no astonishment in those who peruse them.

But to return to the thread of our narrative.

When the Buffer's wife had taken a warm seat by the fire, and comforted herself with a tolerably profound libation of steaming gin-and-water, she proceeded to give an account of her mission.

"I went down to Globe Lane," she said; "and a miserable walk it was, I can assure you. The rain falls in torrents, and the wind blows enough to carry the Monument into the Thames. By the time I got down to the undertaker's house I was drenched. Then Banks wasn't at home; but his wife asked me to stop till he came in; and as I thought that the business was pressing, I agreed. I waited—and waited till I was tired; one hour passed—then half an hour more; and I was just coming back when Banks walks in."

"And so you gave him the note," said the Resurrection Man, who had listened somewhat impatiently to this prelude.

"Yes—I gave him the note," continued Moll Wicks; "and he put on a pair of spectacles with round glasses as big as the bottoms of wine-glasses. When he had read it, he said he would attend to it, and should call his-self on you to-morrow morning by nine o'clock."

"Well and good," exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

"What are you going to do, Tony?" demanded the Rattlesnake.

"Never do you mind now," answered the Resurrection Man. "I will tell you all to-morrow."

"But I haven't quite done yet," cried the Buffer's wife. "Just as I came out of the undertaker's shop I met the surgeon that attended upon the old gentleman at Mrs. Smith's. He beckoned me under an archway, and asked when the old gentleman was going to be buried? I told him that I knew nothing about it. He hesitated, and was going away; and then he turned round suddenly, and said, 'Do you think your husband would mind a job that would put ten pounds into his pocket?' I don't know whether he had ever seen Jack, or not——"

"To be sure he has," interrupted the Buffer. "Didn't I go to him when I cut my hand with the hatchet, chopping wood one day?"

"And so do I know him," interrupted the Resurrection Man. "Doesn't he live in the Cambridge Road, not far from the corner of Bethnal Green Road?"

"The same," answered the Buffer's wife.

"Well—what took place then?"

"He only told me to tell my husband to call upon him—and that was all."

"Here's more work, you see, Jack," said the Resurrection Man. "Leave this business to me. I'll take care and manage it. When we meet to-morrow night, I'll explain all my plans about the money this old fellow has left behind him; and then I'll tell you what arrangement I've made with this surgeon. You must mind and be with me at nine to-morrow night, Jack; because we won't keep young Markham waiting for us."

These last words were uttered with a low chuckle and an expression of countenance that indicated but too well the diabolical hopes and intentions of the Resurrection Man.

The Buffer and his wife then took leave of their friends, and departed to their own abode.

"Now, Meg," said the Resurrection Man, "it is nearly twelve o'clock; and you may get ready to go to bed. I am just going out for a few minutes—"

"As usual, Tony," cried the Rattlesnake, impatiently. "Why do you always go out now—every night?"

"I have told you over and over again not to pry into my secrets," returned the Resurrection Man, furiously. "You mind your own business, and only meddle in what I tell you to take a part; or else—"

"Well, well, Tony—don't be angry now," said the Rattlesnake, in her most wheedling tone. "I will never ask you any more questions. Only I thought it strange that you should have gone out every night for the last three weeks—no matter what weather—"

"And you may think it strange a little longer if you like," once more interrupted the terrible Resurrection Man, with a sinister lowering of his countenance which checked the reply that was rising to the lips of his companion.

The Rattlesnake lighted a candle, and passed into the adjoining apartment.

The Resurrection Man poured some raw spirits into a wine glass, tossed it off, and putting on his hat, left the room.

He descended the precipitate staircase leading to the front door of the house, and in another moment reached the street.

Simply closing, without locking, the door behind him, he turned sharply round into the dark alley which ran beneath a sombre and narrow arch, along one side of the house.

But his footsteps, on this occasion, were closely followed by the Rattlesnake.

Unable to restrain her curiosity any longer—and, perhaps, influenced by other motives of a less superficial nature,—Margaret Flathers had determined to follow her paramour this night; and, scarcely had he closed the street door, when she was already at the bottom of the staircase.

The moment she stepped into the street, she saw the dark form of the Resurrection Man turn down the alley above mentioned; and she muttered to herself, "I thought so! and now perhaps I shall find out why he never would allow me to set foot in the rooms of the lower storey."

The Resurrection Man passed half-way up the alley, and taking a key from his pocket, proceeded to open a door that communicated with the ground-floor of his singularly-built house.

He entered, and the Rattlesnake hurried up to the door. She applied her ear to the key-hole—listened—and heard his footsteps echoing upon the boarded floor of the back-room. In a few moments the grating of a lucifer-match upon the wall met her ear; and applying her eye for a moment to the key-hole, she saw that there was now a light within.

Impelled by an invincible curiosity, or other motives of a powerful nature,—if not both,—the Rattlesnake cautiously raised the latch, and opened the door to the distance of nearly a foot.

With the utmost care, she now ventured to look into the interior of that part of the house, in respect to which a species of Blue-beard restriction had existed for her ever since she first became the companion of the Resurrection Man in that mysterious abode.

Glancing cautiously in, we say, she saw a small passage communicating with two rooms—one at each end, front and back. The door of the front room was closed: that of the back one was open. She accordingly directed all her attention to the back-room.

Against the wall facing the door was a candle, burning in a bright tin shade or reflector; and in the middle of the room, between the door and the light, stood the Resurrection Man. He had his back towards the Rattlesnake; but she could watch all his proceedings with the greatest facility.

And how strange were those proceedings!—The Resurrection Man enveloped himself in a large dark cloak, and fixed a black cloth mask over his countenance. He then advanced towards a cupboard, which he opened, and whence he took several articles, the precise nature of which the Rattlesnake could not ascertain, in consequence of the position in which her paramour was then standing. She however observed that he placed those articles in a basket at his feet; and when this task was accomplished, he lifted the basket in his hand, and turned so abruptly round to leave the room, that the Rattlesnake trembled from head to foot lest he should have caught a glimpse of her head protruded through the opening of the door.

She drew herself back and pulled the door towards her. For a moment she felt inclined to beat a precipitate retreat to her own quarters; but curiosity compelled her to remain.

What could mean that strange disguise?—Why that cloak?—Wherefore that mask?—And what were the objects which the Resurrection Man had consigned to his basket?—Lastly, whither was he going?

With the most extreme caution she again pushed the door partly open, and again did she glance into the interior of that mysterious division of the house.

But all was now dark; the light had disappeared, or was extinguished, and the place was involved in total obscurity.

Nevertheless, all was not silent. The measured tread of receding footsteps fell upon the woman's ear: those sounds seemed to come from heavy feet descending stone stairs.

Fainter and fainter became the sounds, until at length they merged into the low wind, which whistled gloomily and monotonously through the lower part of the house.

Was it that being aware of the diabolical character of the Resurrection Man, she naturally associated his present strange proceedings with some deed of darkness whose very mystery made her shudder?

Was it that she trembled at the idea of being in the power of a miscreant whose ability to work evil seemed as unbounded as his inclination?

Suddenly her thoughts received an interruption which was by no means calculated to tranquillize her mind.

A scream, apparently coming from the very bowels of the earth, echoed through the lower part of that house—a scream expressive of an agony so intense, an anguish so acute, that it smote even her hardened and ruthless heart!

That scream was not repeated; but its echoes rang long throughout the place, and vibrated in a strange and terrible manner on the ears of the Rattlesnake.

Then followed low mutterings, in a hoarse and subdued tone; but as they gradually grew louder, she could recognise the menacing voice of the Resurrection Man.

Fear now completely triumphed over the motives which had induced the woman to seek to penetrate into the secrets of her paramour. The dark cloak—the black mask—the basket—the piercing scream—and the threatening voice, all combined to bewilder her imagination, and fill her with vague but not less terrible alarms.

Hastily closing the door, she retreated with precipitate speed from the dark alley, and ascended the steep staircase leading to the upper rooms of the house.

To throw off her clothes and betake herself to rest was the occupation of but a few minutes: nevertheless, as she laid aside her garments, she cast timid and furtive glances behind her—as if she were afraid that her eyes would encounter some horrible spectre—or some masked figure of appalling aspect.

In a quarter of an hour after she had returned from the contemplation of those mysterious proceedings that had filled her mind with such ineffable horror, the Resurrection Man entered the bed-room.

A light was burning upon the table, and when the door opened the Rattlesnake glanced with profound terror in that direction—for she feared lest he should appear in his long dark cloak and black mask. She was inured to crime;—but it was that crime which she could contemplate face to face; and thus the idea that she was in a house where deeds of unknown horror and machinations of an undefined degree of blackness were the business of the terrible man with whom her fortunes were now linked, prostrated all her courage, and filled her with alarms the more profound, because so ominously vague.

In order to avoid the risk of betraying her trepidation to the Resurrection Man, she soon affected to fall asleep; and, when at length slumber really overtook her, her dreams were filled with gaunt forms clad in long black cloaks, and wearing upon their countenances dark masks, through the holes of which their eyes glared with fearful brightness.

THE cold January morning struggled into existence, amidst rain and sleet, and seemed cradled in dense masses of clouds of tempestuous blackness.

It appeared as if the sun had taken leave of the earth for ever; and it would not have been surprising had the ignorant inquired whence came the gloomy light that just seemed to guide them to their toil.

Miserable indeed was the aspect of the eastern district of the metropolis. Emaciated women, wrapt in thin and scanty shawls, crept along the streets, through the pouring rain, to purchase at the chandlers' shops the morsel that was to serve for the morning's meal,—or, perhaps, to pledge some trifling article in their way, ere they could obtain that meal! Half-starved men,—poor wretches who never made a hearty meal, and who were yet compelled to work like horses,—unhappy beings, who flew to the public houses in despair, and then were reproached by the illiberal and intolerant for their immorality,—black sheep of Fortune's flock, to whom verdant pastures were unknown,—friendless outcasts, who in sickness knew no other consolation than that of the hospital, and in destitution, no asylum save the workhouse,—luckless mortals, who cursed the day they knew the power of love, and execrated that on which they pronounced the marriage vows, because therefrom had sprung children who pined for want before their face,—such men as these were seen dragging themselves along to their labours on the railroad, the canal, or at the docks.

It was about eight o'clock on this miserable morning, when a man, dressed in a shabby suit of black, and wearing a very dirty white neckcloth, the long ends of which hung, damp and lanky, over the front of his closely-buttoned body-coat, walked slowly along Smart Street—a thoroughfare in the eastern part of Globe Town.

This individual was in reality verging upon sixty; but as he dyed his hair and whiskers in order to maintain an uniform aspect of funereal solemnity, he looked ten years younger. His manner was grave and important; and, although the rain was descending in torrents, he would not for the world depart from that measured pace which was habitual to him. He held an old umbrella above his head, to protect a battered hat, round which a piece of crape was sewn in three or four clumsy folds; but the torrent penetrated through the cotton tegument, and two streams poured from the broad brims of his hat adown his anti-laughter-looking and rigidly demure countenance.

When he arrived at about the middle of Smart Street, he halted, examined the numbers of the houses, and at length knocked at the door of one of them.

An elderly woman, dressed in a neat but very homely garb, responded to the summons.

"Does Mrs. Smith live here, ma'am?" demanded the individual in black.

"My name's Smith, sir," answered the widow.

"Very good, ma'am. I'll have a little conversation with you, if you please;"—and the stranger stepped into the passage.

Mrs. Smith conducted him into her little parlour, and inquired his business.

"Mine, ma'am," was the answer, "is a professional visit—entirely a professional visit, ma'am. Alas! ma'am," continued the stranger, casting his eyes upwards in a most dolorous manner, and taking a dirty white handkerchief from his pocket,—"alas! ma'am, I understand you have had a sad loss here?"