tion of any subject
more psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser's stores.

As we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley's sustained
growl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door
opened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came
in with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the
basket, and presented, blushing, as "Clara." She really was a most
charming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that
truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.

"Look here," said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate
and tender smile, after we had talked a little; "here's poor Clara's
supper, served out every night. Here's her allowance of bread, and
here's her slice of cheese, and here's her rum,--which I drink. This
is Mr. Barley's breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two
mutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two
ounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It's
stewed up together, and taken hot, and it's a nice thing for the gout, I
should think!"

There was something so natural and winning in Clara's resigned way of
looking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and
something so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of
yielding herself to Herbert's embracing arm; and something so gentle in
her, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks's Basin,
and the Old Green Copper Ropewalk, with Old Barley growling in the
beam,--that I would not have undone the engagement between her and
Herbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.

I was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the
growl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was heard
above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it through
the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert, "Papa wants
me, darling!" and ran away.

"There is an unconscionable old shark for you!" said Herbert. "What do
you suppose he wants now, Handel?"

"I don't know," said I. "Something to drink?"

"That's it!" cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary
merit. "He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table.
Wait a moment, and you'll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There
he goes!" Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end. "Now," said
Herbert, as it was succeeded by silence, "he'