ed it with a
pleasurable feeling of expectation. This is a copy of what I read:--

"When the maid was arranging your room after your departure, she cleared
some pieces of torn paper from under the grate. Seeing my name upon
them, she brought them, as in duty bound, to her mistress, who pasted
them together and found that they formed a letter from your mother to
you, in which I am referred to in the vilest terms, such as 'a bankrupt
swindler' and 'the unscrupulous Cullingworth.' I can only say that we
are astonished that you could have been a party to such a correspondence
while you were a guest under our roof, and we refuse to have anything
more to do with you in any shape or form."

That was a nice little morning greeting was it not, after I had, on the
strength of his promise, started in practice, and engaged a house for
a year with a few shillings in my pocket? I have given up smoking for
reasons of economy; but I felt that the situation was worthy of a pipe,
so I climbed out of bed, gathered a little heap of tobacco-dust from the
linings of my pocket, and smoked the whole thing over. That life-belt of
which I had spoken so confidingly had burst, and left me to kick as best
I might in very deep water. I read the note over and over again; and for
all my dilemma, I could not help laughing at the mingled meanness and
stupidity of the thing. The picture of the host and hostess busying
themselves in gumming together the torn letters of their departed guest
struck me as one of the funniest things I could remember. And there
was the stupidity of it, because surely a child could have seen that my
mother's attack was in answer to my defence. Why should we write a duet
each saying the same thing? Well, I'm still very confused about it all,
and I don't in the least know what I am going to do--more likely to die
on the last plank, than to get into port with my ensign mast-high. I
must think it out and let you know the result. Come what may, one thing
only is sure, and that is that, in weal or woe, I remain, ever, your
affectionate and garrulous friend.

XIII. OAKLEY VILLAS, BIRCHESPOOL, 12th June, 1882.

When I wrote my last letter, my dear Bertie, I was still gasping, like
a cod on a sand-bank, after my final dismissal by Cullingworth. The mere
setting of it all down in black and white seemed to clear the matter up,
and I felt much more cheery by the time I had finished my letter. I was
just addressing the envelope (