There came a day when the round of decorous pleasures and solemngaieties in which Mr. Jos Sedley's family indulged was interrupted byan event which happens in most houses. As you ascend the staircase ofyour house from the drawing towards the bedroom floors, you may haveremarked a little arch in the wall right before you, which at oncegives light to the stair which leads from the second story to the third(where the nursery and servants' chambers commonly are) and serves foranother purpose of utility, of which the undertaker's men can give youa notion. They rest the coffins upon that arch, or pass them throughit so as not to disturb in any unseemly manner the cold tenantslumbering within the black ark.

That second-floor arch in a London house, looking up and down the wellof the staircase and commanding the main thoroughfare by which theinhabitants are passing; by which cook lurks down before daylight toscour her pots and pans in the kitchen; by which young masterstealthily ascends, having left his boots in the hall, and let himselfin after dawn from a jolly night at the Club; down which miss comesrustling in fresh ribbons and spreading muslins, brilliant andbeautiful, and prepared for conquest and the ball; or Master Tommyslides, preferring the banisters for a mode of conveyance, anddisdaining danger and the stair; down which the mother is fondlycarried smiling in her strong husband's arms, as he steps steadily stepby step, and followed by the monthly nurse, on the day when the medicalman has pronounced that the charming patient may go downstairs; upwhich John lurks to bed, yawning, with a sputtering tallow candle, andto gather up before sunrise the boots which are awaiting him in thepassages--that stair, up or down which babies are carried, old peopleare helped, guests are marshalled to the ball, the parson walks to thechristening, the doctor to the sick-room, and the undertaker's men tothe upper floor--what a memento of Life, Death, and Vanity it is--thatarch and stair--if you choose to consider it, and sit on the landing,looking up and down the well! The doctor will come up to us too forthe last time there, my friend in motley. The nurse will look in atthe curtains, and you take no notice--and then she will fling open thewindows for a little and let in the air. Then they will pull down allthe front blinds of the house and live in the back rooms--then theywill send for the lawyer and other men in black, &c. Your comedy andmine will have been played then, and we shall be removed, oh, how far,from the trumpets, and the shouting, and the posture-making. If weare gentlefolks they will put hatchments over our late domicile, withgilt cherubim, and mottoes stating that there is "Quiet in Heaven."Your son will new furnish the house, or perhaps let it, and go into amore modern quarter; your name will be among the "Members Deceased" inthe lists of your clubs next year. However much you may be mourned,your widow will like to have her weeds neatly made--the cook will sendor come up to ask about dinner--the survivor will soon bear to look atyour picture over the mantelpiece, which will presently be deposed fromthe place of honour, to make way for the portrait of the son who reigns.

Which of the dead are most tenderly and passionately deplored? Thosewho love the survivors the least, I believe. The death of a childoccasions a passion of grief and frantic tears, such as your end,brother reader, will never inspire. The death of an infant whichscarce knew you, which a week's absence from you would have caused toforget you, will strike you down more than the loss of your closestfriend, or your first-born son--a man grown like yourself, withchildren of his own. We may be harsh and stern with Judah andSimeon--our love and pity gush out for Benjamin, the little one. And ifyou are old, as some reader of this may be or shall be old and rich, orold and poor--you may one day be thinking for yourself--"These peopleare very good round about me, but they won't grieve too much when I amgone. I am very rich, and they want my inheritance--or very poor, andthey are tired of supporting me."

The period of mourning for Mrs. Sedley's death was only just concluded,and Jos scarcely had had time to cast off his black and appear in thesplendid waistcoats which he loved, when it became evident to thoseabout Mr. Sedley that another event was at hand, and that the old manwas about to go seek for his wife in the dark land whither she hadpreceded him. "The state of my father's health," Jos Sedley solemnlyremarked at the Club, "prevents me from giving any LARGE parties thisseason: but if you will come in quietly at half-past six, Chutney, myboy, and fake a homely dinner with one or two of the old set--I shallbe always glad to see you." So Jos and his acquaintances dined anddrank their claret among themselves in silence, whilst the sands oflife were running out in the old man's glass upstairs. Thevelvet-footed butler brought them their wine, and they composedthemselves to a rubber after dinner, at which Major Dobbin wouldsometimes come and take a hand; and Mrs. Osborne would occasionallydescend, when her patient above was settled for the night, and hadcommenced one of those lightly troubled slumbers which visit the pillowof old age.

The old man clung to his daughter during this sickness. He would takehis broths and medicines from scarcely any other hand. To tend himbecame almost the sole business of her life. Her bed was placed closeby the door which opened into his chamber, and she was alive at theslightest noise or disturbance from the couch of the querulous invalid.Though, to do him justice, he lay awake many an hour, silent andwithout stirring, unwilling to awaken his kind and vigilant nurse.

He loved his daughter with more fondness now, perhaps, than ever he haddone since the days of her childhood. In the discharge of gentleoffices and kind filial duties, this simple creature shone mostespecially. "She walks into the room as silently as a sunbeam," Mr.Dobbin thought as he saw her passing in and out from her father's room,a cheerful sweetness lighting up her face as she moved to and fro,graceful and noiseless. When women are brooding over their children,or busied in a sick-room, who has not seen in their faces those sweetangelic beams of love and pity?

A secret feud of some years' standing was thus healed, and with a tacitreconciliation. In these last hours, and touched by her love andgoodness, the old man forgot all his grief against her, and wrongswhich he and his wife had many a long night debated: how she had givenup everything for her boy; how she was careless of her parents in theirold age and misfortune, and only thought of the child; how absurdly andfoolishly, impiously indeed, she took on when George was removed fromher. Old Sedley forgot these charges as he was making up his lastaccount, and did justice to the gentle and uncomplaining little martyr.One night when she stole into his room, she found him awake, when thebroken old man made his confession. "Oh, Emmy, I've been thinking wewere very unkind and unjust to you," he said and put out his cold andfeeble hand to her. She knelt down and prayed by his bedside, as he didtoo, having still hold of her hand. When our turn comes, friend, maywe have such company in our prayers!

Perhaps as he was lying awake then, his life may have passed beforehim--his early hopeful struggles, his manly successes and prosperity,his downfall in his declining years, and his present helplesscondition--no chance of revenge against Fortune, which had had thebetter of him--neither name nor money to bequeath--a spent-out,bootless life of defeat and disappointment, and the end here! Which, Iwonder, brother reader, is the better lot, to die prosperous andfamous, or poor and disappointed? To have, and to be forced to yield;or to sink out of life, having played and lost the game? That must be astrange feeling, when a day of our life comes and we say, "To-morrow,success or failure won't matter much, and the sun will rise, and allthe myriads of mankind go to their work or their pleasure as usual, butI shall be out of the turmoil."

So there came one morning and sunrise when all the world got up and setabout its various works and pleasures, with the exception of old JohnSedley, who was not to fight with fortune, or to hope or scheme anymore, but to go and take up a quiet and utterly unknown residence in achurchyard at Brompton by the side of his old wife.

Major Dobbin, Jos, and Georgy followed his remains to the grave, in ablack cloth coach. Jos came on purpose from the Star and Garter atRichmond, whither he retreated after the deplorable event. He did notcare to remain in the house, with the--under the circumstances, youunderstand. But Emmy stayed and did her duty as usual. She was boweddown by no especial grief, and rather solemn than sorrowful. Sheprayed that her own end might be as calm and painless, and thought withtrust and reverence of the words which she had heard from her fatherduring his illness, indicative of his faith, his resignation, and hisfuture hope.

Yes, I think that will be the better ending of the two, after all.Suppose you are particularly rich and well-to-do and say on that lastday, "I am very rich; I am tolerably well known; I have lived all mylife in the best society, and thank Heaven, come of a most respectablefamily. I have served my King and country with honour. I was inParliament for several years, where, I may say, my speeches werelistened to and pretty well received. I don't owe any man a shilling:on the contrary, I lent my old college friend, Jack Lazarus, fiftypounds, for which my executors will not press him. I leave mydaughters with ten thousand pounds apiece--very good portions forgirls; I bequeath my plate and furniture, my house in Baker Street,with a handsome jointure, to my widow for her life; and my landedproperty, besides money in the funds, and my cellar of well-selectedwine in Baker Street, to my son. I leave twenty pound a year to myvalet; and I defy any man after I have gone to find anything against mycharacter." Or suppose, on the other hand, your swan sings quite adifferent sort of dirge and you say, "I am a poor blighted,disappointed old fellow, and have made an utter failure through life.I was not endowed either with brains or with good fortune, and confessthat I have committed a hundred mistakes and blunders. I own to havingforgotten my duty many a time. I can't pay what I owe. On my last bedI lie utterly helpless and humble, and I pray forgiveness for myweakness and throw myself, with a contrite heart, at the feet of theDivine Mercy." Which of these two speeches, think you, would be thebest oration for your own funeral? Old Sedley made the last; and inthat humble frame of mind, and holding by the hand of his daughter,life and disappointment and vanity sank away from under him.

"You see," said old Osborne to George, "what comes of merit, andindustry, and judicious speculations, and that. Look at me and mybanker's account. Look at your poor Grandfather Sedley and hisfailure. And yet he was a better man than I was, this day twentyyears--a better man, I should say, by ten thousand pound."

Beyond these people and Mr. Clapp's family, who came over from Bromptonto pay a visit of condolence, not a single soul alive ever cared apenny piece about old John Sedley, or remembered the existence of sucha person.

When old Osborne first heard from his friend Colonel Buckler (as littleGeorgy had already informed us) how distinguished an officer MajorDobbin was, he exhibited a great deal of scornful incredulity andexpressed his surprise how ever such a feller as that should possesseither brains or reputation. But he heard of the Major's fame fromvarious members of his society. Sir William Dobbin had a great opinionof his son and narrated many stories illustrative of the Major'slearning, valour, and estimation in the world's opinion. Finally, hisname appeared in the lists of one or two great parties of the nobility,and this circumstance had a prodigious effect upon the old aristocratof Russell Square.

The Major's position, as guardian to Georgy, whose possession had beenceded to his grandfather, rendered some meetings between the twogentlemen inevitable; and it was in one of these that old Osborne, akeen man of business, looking into the Major's accounts with his wardand the boy's mother, got a hint, which staggered him very much, and atonce pained and pleased him, that it was out of William Dobbin's ownpocket that a part of the fund had been supplied upon which the poorwidow and the child had subsisted.

When pressed upon the point, Dobbin, who could not tell lies, blushedand stammered a good deal and finally confessed. "The marriage," hesaid (at which his interlocutor's face grew dark) "was very much mydoing. I thought my poor friend had gone so far that retreat from hisengagement would have been dishonour to him and death to Mrs. Osborne,and I could do no less, when she was left without resources, than givewhat money I could spare to maintain her."

"Major D.," Mr. Osborne said, looking hard at him and turning very redtoo--"you did me a great injury; but give me leave to tell you, sir,you are an honest feller. There's my hand, sir, though I little thoughtthat my flesh and blood was living on you--" and the pair shook hands,with great confusion on Major Dobbin's part, thus found out in his actof charitable hypocrisy.

He strove to soften the old man and reconcile him towards his son'smemory. "He was such a noble fellow," he said, "that all of us lovedhim, and would have done anything for him. I, as a young man in thosedays, was flattered beyond measure by his preference for me, and wasmore pleased to be seen in his company than in that of theCommander-in-Chief. I never saw his equal for pluck and daring and allthe qualities of a soldier"; and Dobbin told the old father as manystories as he could remember regarding the gallantry and achievementsof his son. "And Georgy is so like him," the Major added.

"He's so like him that he makes me tremble sometimes," the grandfathersaid.

On one or two evenings the Major came to dine with Mr. Osborne (it wasduring the time of the sickness of Mr. Sedley), and as the two sattogether in the evening after dinner, all their talk was about thedeparted hero. The father boasted about him according to his wont,glorifying himself in recounting his son's feats and gallantry, but hismood was at any rate better and more charitable than that in which hehad been disposed until now to regard the poor fellow; and theChristian heart of the kind Major was pleased at these symptoms ofreturning peace and good-will. On the second evening old Osbornecalled Dobbin William, just as he used to do at the time when Dobbinand George were boys together, and the honest gentleman was pleased bythat mark of reconciliation.

On the next day at breakfast, when Miss Osborne, with the asperity ofher age and character, ventured to make some remark reflectingslightingly upon the Major's appearance or behaviour--the master of thehouse interrupted her. "You'd have been glad enough to git him foryourself, Miss O. But them grapes are sour. Ha! ha! Major William isa fine feller."

"That he is, Grandpapa," said Georgy approvingly; and going up close tothe old gentleman, he took a hold of his large grey whiskers, andlaughed in his face good-humouredly, and kissed him. And he told thestory at night to his mother, who fully agreed with the boy. "Indeed heis," she said. "Your dear father always said so. He is one of the bestand most upright of men." Dobbin happened to drop in very soon afterthis conversation, which made Amelia blush perhaps, and the youngscapegrace increased the confusion by telling Dobbin the other part ofthe story. "I say, Dob," he said, "there's such an uncommon nice girlwants to marry you. She's plenty of tin; she wears a front; and shescolds the servants from morning till night." "Who is it?" askedDobbin. "It's Aunt O.," the boy answered. "Grandpapa said so. And Isay, Dob, how prime it would be to have you for my uncle." Old Sedley'squavering voice from the next room at this moment weakly called forAmelia, and the laughing ended.

That old Osborne's mind was changing was pretty clear. He asked Georgeabout his uncle sometimes, and laughed at the boy's imitation of theway in which Jos said "God-bless-my-soul" and gobbled his soup. Thenhe said, "It's not respectful, sir, of you younkers to be imitating ofyour relations. Miss O., when you go out adriving to-day, leave mycard upon Mr. Sedley, do you hear? There's no quarrel betwigst me andhim anyhow."

The card was returned, and Jos and the Major were asked to dinner--toa dinner the most splendid and stupid that perhaps ever Mr. Osbornegave; every inch of the family plate was exhibited, and the bestcompany was asked. Mr. Sedley took down Miss O. to dinner, and shewas very gracious to him; whereas she hardly spoke to the Major, whosat apart from her, and by the side of Mr. Osborne, very timid. Jossaid, with great solemnity, it was the best turtle soup he had evertasted in his life, and asked Mr. Osborne where he got his Madeira.

"It is some of Sedley's wine," whispered the butler to his master."I've had it a long time, and paid a good figure for it, too," Mr.Osborne said aloud to his guest, and then whispered to his right-handneighbour how he had got it "at the old chap's sale."

More than once he asked the Major about--about Mrs. George Osborne--atheme on which the Major could be very eloquent when he chose. He toldMr. Osborne of her sufferings--of her passionate attachment to herhusband, whose memory she worshipped still--of the tender and dutifulmanner in which she had supported her parents, and given up her boy,when it seemed to her her duty to do so. "You don't know what sheendured, sir," said honest Dobbin with a tremor in his voice, "and Ihope and trust you will be reconciled to her. If she took your sonaway from you, she gave hers to you; and however much you loved yourGeorge, depend on it, she loved hers ten times more."

"By God, you are a good feller, sir," was all Mr. Osborne said. It hadnever struck him that the widow would feel any pain at parting from theboy, or that his having a fine fortune could grieve her. Areconciliation was announced as speedy and inevitable, and Amelia'sheart already began to beat at the notion of the awful meeting withGeorge's father.

It was never, however, destined to take place. Old Sedley's lingeringillness and death supervened, after which a meeting was for some timeimpossible. That catastrophe and other events may have worked upon Mr.Osborne. He was much shaken of late, and aged, and his mind wasworking inwardly. He had sent for his lawyers, and probably changedsomething in his will. The medical man who looked in pronounced himshaky, agitated, and talked of a little blood and the seaside; but hetook neither of these remedies.

One day when he should have come down to breakfast, his servant missinghim, went into his dressing-room and found him lying at the foot of thedressing-table in a fit. Miss Osborne was apprised; the doctors weresent for; Georgy stopped away from school; the bleeders and cupperscame. Osborne partially regained cognizance, but never could speakagain, though he tried dreadfully once or twice, and in four days hedied. The doctors went down, and the undertaker's men went up thestairs, and all the shutters were shut towards the garden in RussellSquare. Bullock rushed from the City in a hurry. "How much money hadhe left to that boy? Not half, surely? Surely share and share alikebetween the three?" It was an agitating moment.

What was it that poor old man tried once or twice in vain to say? Ihope it was that he wanted to see Amelia and be reconciled before heleft the world to one dear and faithful wife of his son: it was mostlikely that, for his will showed that the hatred which he had so longcherished had gone out of his heart.

They found in the pocket of his dressing-gown the letter with the greatred seal which George had written him from Waterloo. He had looked atthe other papers too, relative to his son, for the key of the box inwhich he kept them was also in his pocket, and it was found the sealsand envelopes had been broken--very likely on the night before theseizure--when the butler had taken him tea into his study, and foundhim reading in the great red family Bible.

When the will was opened, it was found that half the property was leftto George, and the remainder between the two sisters. Mr. Bullock tocontinue, for their joint benefit, the affairs of the commercial house,or to go out, as he thought fit. An annuity of five hundred pounds,chargeable on George's property, was left to his mother, "the widow ofmy beloved son, George Osborne," who was to resume the guardianship ofthe boy.

"Major William Dobbin, my beloved son's friend," was appointedexecutor; "and as out of his kindness and bounty, and with his ownprivate funds, he maintained my grandson and my son's widow, when theywere otherwise without means of support" (the testator went on to say)"I hereby thank him heartily for his love and regard for them, andbeseech him to accept such a sum as may be sufficient to purchase hiscommission as a Lieutenant-Colonel, or to be disposed of in any way hemay think fit."

When Amelia heard that her father-in-law was reconciled to her, herheart melted, and she was grateful for the fortune left to her. Butwhen she heard how Georgy was restored to her, and knew how and bywhom, and how it was William's bounty that supported her in poverty,how it was William who gave her her husband and her son--oh, then shesank on her knees, and prayed for blessings on that constant and kindheart; she bowed down and humbled herself, and kissed the feet, as itwere, of that beautiful and generous affection.

And gratitude was all that she had to pay back for such admirabledevotion and benefits--only gratitude! If she thought of any otherreturn, the image of George stood up out of the grave and said, "Youare mine, and mine only, now and forever."

William knew her feelings: had he not passed his whole life indivining them?

When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to the world, it wasedifying to remark how Mrs. George Osborne rose in the estimation ofthe people forming her circle of acquaintance. The servants of Jos'sestablishment, who used to question her humble orders and say theywould "ask Master" whether or not they could obey, never thought now ofthat sort of appeal. The cook forgot to sneer at her shabby old gowns(which, indeed, were quite eclipsed by that lady's finery when she wasdressed to go to church of a Sunday evening), the others no longergrumbled at the sound of her bell, or delayed to answer that summons.The coachman, who grumbled that his 'osses should be brought out andhis carriage made into an hospital for that old feller and Mrs. O.,drove her with the utmost alacrity now, and trembling lest he should besuperseded by Mr. Osborne's coachman, asked "what them there RussellSquare coachmen knew about town, and whether they was fit to sit on abox before a lady?" Jos's friends, male and female, suddenly becameinterested about Emmy, and cards of condolence multiplied on her halltable. Jos himself, who had looked on her as a good-natured harmlesspauper, to whom it was his duty to give victuals and shelter, paid herand the rich little boy, his nephew, the greatest respect--was anxiousthat she should have change and amusement after her troubles andtrials, "poor dear girl"--and began to appear at the breakfast-table,and most particularly to ask how she would like to dispose of the day.

In her capacity of guardian to Georgy, she, with the consent of theMajor, her fellow-trustee, begged Miss Osborne to live in the RussellSquare house as long as ever she chose to dwell there; but that lady,with thanks, declared that she never could think of remaining alone inthat melancholy mansion, and departed in deep mourning to Cheltenham,with a couple of her old domestics. The rest were liberally paid anddismissed, the faithful old butler, whom Mrs. Osborne proposed toretain, resigning and preferring to invest his savings in apublic-house, where, let us hope, he was not unprosperous. Miss Osbornenot choosing to live in Russell Square, Mrs. Osborne also, afterconsultation, declined to occupy the gloomy old mansion there. Thehouse was dismantled; the rich furniture and effects, the awfulchandeliers and dreary blank mirrors packed away and hidden, the richrosewood drawing-room suite was muffled in straw, the carpets wererolled up and corded, the small select library of well-bound books wasstowed into two wine-chests, and the whole paraphernalia rolled away inseveral enormous vans to the Pantechnicon, where they were to lie untilGeorgy's majority. And the great heavy dark plate-chests went off toMessrs. Stumpy and Rowdy, to lie in the cellars of those eminentbankers until the same period should arrive.

One day Emmy, with George in her hand and clad in deep sables, went tovisit the deserted mansion which she had not entered since she was agirl. The place in front was littered with straw where the vans hadbeen laden and rolled off. They went into the great blank rooms, thewalls of which bore the marks where the pictures and mirrors had hung.Then they went up the great blank stone staircases into the upperrooms, into that where grandpapa died, as George said in a whisper, andthen higher still into George's own room. The boy was still clingingby her side, but she thought of another besides him. She knew that ithad been his father's room as well as his own.

She went up to one of the open windows (one of those at which she usedto gaze with a sick heart when the child was first taken from her), andthence as she looked out she could see, over the trees of RussellSquare, the old house in which she herself was born, and where she hadpassed so many happy days of sacred youth. They all came back to her,the pleasant holidays, the kind faces, the careless, joyful past times,and the long pains and trials that had since cast her down. She thoughtof these and of the man who had been her constant protector, her goodgenius, her sole benefactor, her tender and generous friend.

"Look here, Mother," said Georgy, "here's a G.O. scratched on the glasswith a diamond, I never saw it before, I never did it."

"It was your father's room long before you were born, George," shesaid, and she blushed as she kissed the boy.

She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, where they hadtaken a temporary house: where the smiling lawyers used to comebustling over to see her (and we may be sure noted the visit in thebill): and where of course there was a room for Major Dobbin too, whorode over frequently, having much business to transact on behalf of hislittle ward.

Georgy at this time was removed from Mr. Veal's on an unlimitedholiday, and that gentleman was engaged to prepare an inscription for afine marble slab, to be placed up in the Foundling under the monumentof Captain George Osborne.

The female Bullock, aunt of Georgy, although despoiled by that littlemonster of one-half of the sum which she expected from her father,nevertheless showed her charitableness of spirit by being reconciled tothe mother and the boy. Roehampton is not far from Richmond, and oneday the chariot, with the golden bullocks emblazoned on the panels, andthe flaccid children within, drove to Amelia's house at Richmond; andthe Bullock family made an irruption into the garden, where Amelia wasreading a book, Jos was in an arbour placidly dipping strawberries intowine, and the Major in one of his Indian jackets was giving a back toGeorgy, who chose to jump over him. He went over his head and boundedinto the little advance of Bullocks, with immense black bows in theirhats, and huge black sashes, accompanying their mourning mamma.

"He is just of the age for Rosa," the fond parent thought, and glancedtowards that dear child, an unwholesome little miss of seven years ofage.

"Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin," Mrs. Frederick said. "Don't youknow me, George? I am your aunt."

"I know you well enough," George said; "but I don't like kissing,please"; and he retreated from the obedient caresses of his cousin.

"Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child," Mrs. Frederick said, andthose ladies accordingly met, after an absence of more than fifteenyears. During Emmy's cares and poverty the other had never oncethought about coming to see her, but now that she was decentlyprosperous in the world, her sister-in-law came to her as a matter ofcourse.

So did numbers more. Our old friend, Miss Swartz, and her husband camethundering over from Hampton Court, with flaming yellow liveries, andwas as impetuously fond of Amelia as ever. Miss Swartz would haveliked her always if she could have seen her. One must do her thatjustice. But, que voulez vous?--in this vast town one has not the timeto go and seek one's friends; if they drop out of the rank theydisappear, and we march on without them. Who is ever missed in VanityFair?

But so, in a word, and before the period of grief for Mr. Osborne'sdeath had subsided, Emmy found herself in the centre of a very genteelcircle indeed, the members of which could not conceive that anybodybelonging to it was not very lucky. There was scarce one of the ladiesthat hadn't a relation a Peer, though the husband might be a drysalterin the City. Some of the ladies were very blue and well informed,reading Mrs. Somerville and frequenting the Royal Institution; otherswere severe and Evangelical, and held by Exeter Hall. Emmy, it must beowned, found herself entirely at a loss in the midst of their clavers,and suffered woefully on the one or two occasions on which she wascompelled to accept Mrs. Frederick Bullock's hospitalities. That ladypersisted in patronizing her and determined most graciously to formher. She found Amelia's milliners for her and regulated her householdand her manners. She drove over constantly from Roehampton andentertained her friend with faint fashionable fiddle-faddle and feebleCourt slip-slop. Jos liked to hear it, but the Major used to go offgrowling at the appearance of this woman, with her twopenny gentility.He went to sleep under Frederick Bullock's bald head, after dinner, atone of the banker's best parties (Fred was still anxious that thebalance of the Osborne property should be transferred from Stumpy andRowdy's to them), and whilst Amelia, who did not know Latin, or whowrote the last crack article in the Edinburgh, and did not in the leastdeplore, or otherwise, Mr. Peel's late extraordinary tergiversation onthe fatal Catholic Relief Bill, sat dumb amongst the ladies in thegrand drawing-room, looking out upon velvet lawns, trim gravel walks,and glistening hot-houses.

"She seems good-natured but insipid," said Mrs. Rowdy; "that Majorseems to be particularly epris."

"She wants ton sadly," said Mrs. Hollyock. "My dear creature, younever will be able to form her."

"She is dreadfully ignorant or indifferent," said Mrs. Glowry with avoice as if from the grave, and a sad shake of the head and turban. "Iasked her if she thought that it was in 1836, according to Mr. Jowls,or in 1839, according to Mr. Wapshot, that the Pope was to fall: andshe said--'Poor Pope! I hope not--What has he done?'"

"She is my brother's widow, my dear friends," Mrs. Frederick replied,"and as such I think we're all bound to give her every attention andinstruction on entering into the world. You may fancy there can be noMERCENARY motives in those whose DISAPPOINTMENTS are well known."

"That poor dear Mrs. Bullock," said Rowdy to Hollyock, as they droveaway together--"she is always scheming and managing. She wants Mrs.Osborne's account to be taken from our house to hers--and the way inwhich she coaxes that boy and makes him sit by that blear-eyed littleRosa is perfectly ridiculous."

"I wish Glowry was choked with her Man of Sin and her Battle ofArmageddon," cried the other, and the carriage rolled away over PutneyBridge.

But this sort of society was too cruelly genteel for Emmy, and alljumped for joy when a foreign tour was proposed.