for a moment, the elder of the two addressed me in a manner that showed me he was, as I had suspected, intoxicated.

"I say, my rummy cove, you're a queer-looking, outlandish chap; tip out your brads, and pay your footing here. You can't have hotel comforts for nothing, you know."

"To be sure he can't," said the younger, drawing on the other side of me as

he spoke.

"You're both mistaken (I exclaimed, calmly). My fortunes, probably, are forlorn as your own. I am a desperate man, and without the price of the humblest bed, or I should not be here."

"Gammon (exclaimed the elder man). Now tell us your calling, if you mean to say you're one of us. Are you a cracksman, a grand toby man, a listmaker, a smasher, or a buzzman? Now tip us the gag."

"I do not understand your terms (I replied); but of this be certain-I have the means of taking my own part, if you molest me."

As I spoke, I drew back a step or two, and raised the heavy stick which I carried in an attitude of defence.

"Stash it, Ben; he's a cove like us-hard down on his luck (said the younger man); and may I never handle a darkey or a jemmy if I haven't seen his phiz before in some nook (continued the speaker, suddenly changing his manner of speaking). Pray, Sir, will you do me the favour of giving me your name? I will not solicit your card, not being prepared to exchange my own this moment." "Your voice (I replied) seems familiar to my ear, as does your countenance; but where we may have met I know not."

"D-n it! it's that that puzzles me (said the man). You look like some greenhorn that I've done in my day, but how, when, or where--”

Suddenly he struck his forehead violently, with an oath of surprise.

"Can it be possible (he exclaimed)? Your name is Stowell?"

"And yours (I exclaimed, as he stood face to face with me, by the kiln's light) is

"Clifford, at your service-once in your service."

"I have not forgotten you (I exclaimed, bitterly); by the same token that you robbed me——”

"Easy, easy, Mr. Stowell-that's an ugly word. We've both been rascals in our day; but forget the past in this strange meeting after so many years, and tell me how you have got so devilishly low in the world."

"My story, if I have one (I said, haughtily), is not for every ear.'

"Good Lord! and are you rich enough to be grand still (said Clifford)? Though I am somewhat blackened and hardened since I saw you, yet I mean friendly."

"The best proof of your fidelity--"

"Whisht! let that plea stick by the wa', as a Scotchman would say (observed Clifford). You played the villain yourself to a lovely girl-deceived your relative, and employed me in the basest service, besides bringing down curses on my head. I had been made your tool. Was it strange that, thrown upon my own resources so often as I had been in life, I should have escaped without some little contamination of principle, and, consequently, that, having the power in my hands, I should forego so glorious a chance of indemnity as presented itself at Naples? Ask your own heart——”

“Oh, you're giving him a little of your Old Bailey gag, eh, Cliffy ?” said the elderly man, affecting a facetious wink.

A moment's reflection had convinced me, indeed, while Clifford spoke, of the utter folly of quarrelling with a man whose crimes, in all probability, were light compared with my own.

"I have no wish (I said) to rip up old grievances; neither of us are in a state to care much for the past when the future appears of so much consequence."

“Your luck, I guess, has been worse than my own (said Clifford, thoughtfully). I knew you were devoted to play, and then that duel affair-it's easily accounted for how you're come down."

"You're right (I exclaimed, bitterly); and now can you teach me best how to obtain clothes, to make an appearance?"

"Yes, I can, and much more than that (said Clifford, confidently). You are right-a good appearance is the first step that is indispensable, whether in the pursuit of crime or industry; and I suppose the world has not particularly improved your taste, and that you're not over nice?”

"You may be right (I exclaimed); necessity has no law."

"Come, you speak to the purpose (said Clifford). Although you see me here with my companion on what is termed the night-crawl, it is a particular appointment we have. I will now prove to you, though I made free with a little cash of yours—and which, by the way, only steeped me further in the mirecrime has not altogether steeled my heart. Here's a sovereign-don't startyou'll find it good. You'll value it more than you did a hundred or a thousand in former days, for it will do you more service. It will get you a lodging; if you're knocked up, take a cab. You'll get a bed and supper at any public-house —that is, if you pay for it before-hand, for, truth to say, you do not look overflourishing."

"Your kindness shall, at least, be remembered," I said.

Say nothing about that (said Clifford). In three days, if you'll ask for me at that flash ken' (and he gave me a card), you'll hear of me, or see me, if I've any luck, and we'll talk of other matters."

As he finished speaking, two figures darkened the space between us and the kiln.

Perceiving, from the manner of the two new-comers, who were joined by the half-intoxicated companion of Clifford, that my presence was viewed with sus picion, I hastily bade the latter good night, and departed with a feeling of joy in being thus unexpectedly made the possessor of a solitary piece of gold. Making my way to the nearest tavern, after being eyed for some time with suspicion, I managed to obtain refreshments and a bed, and awoke the next morning with a feeling that I had been a stranger to for a long time previous. The morning I spent in serious contemplation of my future prospects. Although my trial in France had been copied into most of the papers of Europe, yet, having been tried and convicted under an assumed name, I was still in hopes that, if my uncle was living, he was ignorant of the indelible disgrace of my conduct. At all events, if he were alive, it was my determination to effect, if possible, a reconciliation, by addressing myself to his naturally kind heart. The first thing, however, was to ascertain his existence. Calling upon a tradesman in town, with whom I knew he dealt, I represented myself as an old servant of the old gentleman's, and proceeded to make inquiries. I learnt, indeed, that, though. bowed down by infirmities (family troubles my informant termed them) rather than years, he still existed, though he had foregone his usual walks in the fields, and now led a melancholy and somewhat secluded life with a young lady (the daughter of a clergyman), whom he appeared to have adopted.

At this intelligence, a hundred hopes flashed across my mind, and I knew the young lady, indeed, could be no other than Mary Clifton, and felt it presented me with an admirable opportunity of offering to expiate the wrongs I had done poor Mary by offering her my hand at once. Conceiving that there would, at least, be thought a feeling of contrition in the offer, I sat down and wrote a long and pathetic letter, which I thought calculated to touch the heart of both Mary and my uncle. In this I described my contrition and shame for the past, and stated that I had gone wandering about the world with an upbraiding conscience, and that I only trespassed on his notice, being very ill at that moment, that I might obtain, if possible, his forgiveness, and make reparation to the injured Mary before I died.

To this hypocritical effusion I attached the decent address of a wretched lodging which I had taken in one of the courts leading out of Drury-lane. It was on the second day that, with a feeling of feverish intensity, I heard the postman's knock at the door. The moment afterwards the woman of the house entered my squalid-looking chamber with a letter in the well-known handwriting of my uncle. Almost breathless with the intensity of my emotions, I broke the

seal of those armorial bearings which I had so vilely dishonoured, and read the following brief contents:

"Infatuated criminal! The perusal of your letter has only tended to convince me that you are for ever lost to every principle of honesty and truth. Your conviction for forgery in Paris I have long known, though ignorant of your escape from those laws it has been the guilty business of your life to outrage. If it be possible that one so young and steeped in duplicity and crime can feel remorse, seek forgiveness of that one great Being before whom alone all hearts are known. Your offer of atonement to your noble-hearted victim comes too late; it is now an insult, nor does it require much penetration to see through your shallow artifice. For my part, the hours of sorrow you have caused me are over; would that I could say as much for the best and most abused of women. These are the last lines I shall ever write to you. That you may not perish from want, or plead that as an excuse for future crime, I have been induced to do for you far more than you deserve. Enclosed is an order, which, presented by yourself, will entitle you to the sum of five pounds a month. This you will only receive on condition of keeping your name out of the criminal calendar, and on condition of never writing to, or in any way communicating with, her whom you have so basely treated, or myself."

Although disappointed in my main object, I knew the uncompromising determinatien of my uncle's resolves too well to expect any other favour than that expressed in his letter, and which, indeed, my heart told me I alone owed to Mary Clifton. In my then impoverished and miserable state, I felt not a little relief to have the allowance he had made me. Slender as it was, it still kept me from absolute destitution, and prevented me having recourse to one so low and desperate in his crimes as I deemed Clifford to be. I never even went near the place to inquire after him, but, obtaining clothes from the first immediate instalment, which I drew from a tradesman who had formerly been a confidential servant in my uncle's service, I had the satisfaction of being enabled to make a decent appearance. Desirous of learning, if possible, any news with regard to my escape, I ventured into a coffee-house frequented by foreigners, and, looking at some French papers two or three weeks old, read an exaggerated account of the murder of the soldier, and my escape and supposed death, together with that of Montnuil and the fisherman, the bodies of whom, locked in their last fierce embrace, were picked up near Falmouth a few days after the wreck. Relieved of a great portion of my fear, I still deemed it only prudent to disguise myself, so that those who had formerly known me abroad could not by any chance recognise me. In this art, indeed, had been made but too great a proficient, under the Baroness d'Eclere to dread the result. In the course of a week or two, by means

of a wig, allowing my moustache and whiskers to grow, and painting my eyebrows, I felt confidence in the efficiency of my disguise. One tell-tale mark of infamy at times harassed me with the fears of detection through some untoward accident-that was the brand upon my arm, which I dreadfully lacerated in a vain hope of effacing the damning mark.

(To be Continued.)

ADVERTISING FOR A WIFE.

MODESTY, diffidence, and a proper humility, are jewels in the cap of merit ; but downright bashfulness, your real mauvaise honte, is terrible, and is a distinct mark of ill-breeding, or rather of no breeding at all. Your dashing impudent fops, who say a thousand silly things to the ladies, and flutter around them like butterflies, are yet more endurable than your bashful fellows who sneak into a corner, terrified to catch a look, or exchange a word with pretty women.

Such an identical person paid me a visit on one of the cold days last week, and broke in upon me with a thousand bows and apologies, while busily engaged with pen in hand, thinking of a cure for the monetary panic, which would not run the risk of being knocked on the head by a friend the moment it was announced.

"Sit down, sir, if you please; make no more apologies: sit down and tell me your business." "Well, sir, I'm come for a curious business, quite an intrusion, I'm sure, but so it is; necessity knows no ceremony. Some time ago I read in your paper a description of the miseries of an old bachelor, and it was so to the life-so true, and so exactly my condition, that I have made bold to call for advice; for misery, they say, loves company, and one wretched bachelor may be able to counsel another-that it is-" "Stop, stop, my friend; before you proceed, let me correct an error in which you have, no doubt, inadvertently fallen. Though I might be able from memory to describe the misery of single wretchedness, I had not the courage constantly to face it. You must not be deceived, I am no longer a bachelor; do you want the proofs, look there; that black-eyed, ruddy-cheeked fellow on the carpet, employed in cutting out ships and houses from old newspapers, is my oldest; he designs himself to be an editor, for he contends that nothing is easier; it is only, he says, cutting out slips from one paper and putting them into another. That little one who struts about in a paper cocked-hat and wooden sword, with which, ever and anon, he pokes at my ribs, while busily engaged in considering how the nation is to be saved, is my second hopeful; he is a Wellington; all children, sir, are great men ; he goes for a soldier if there be wars. That little golden-haired urchin, with a melting blue