one it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Hush--I'm going to the
clergyman.'

'No!' said Parsons. 'How well you have managed it!'

'Where does Timson live?' inquired Watkins.

'At his uncle's,' replied Gabriel, 'just round the lane. He's waiting
for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or
three months. But how well you have done it--I didn't think you could
have carried it off so!'

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian
principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was
interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded
like a fancy cocked-hat.

'Miss Lillerton's compliments,' said Martha, as she delivered it into
Tottle's hands, and vanished.

'Do you observe the delicacy?' said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel
Parsons. '_Compliments_, not _love_, by the servant, eh?'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn't exactly know what reply to make, so he poked
the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr.
Watkins Tottle.

'Come,' said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this
practical jest, had subsided, 'we'll be off at once--let's lose no time.'

'Capital!' echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the
garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

'Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr.
Charles Timson's uncle's man.

'Mr. Charles _is_ at home,' replied the man, stammering; 'but he desired
me to say he couldn't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'

'_I_ am not a parishioner,' replied Watkins.

'Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?' inquired Parsons, thrusting
himself forward.

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is
practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not
to be disturbed.'

'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; 'Mr.
Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.'

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his
message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were
heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands
with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

'Game!' exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a
green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he
might remain in the room under the pretext of having s