the thieves talk,
and I solemnly believe it. That's one thing. Now, here's another. You'll
excuse me, my dear fellow. In course you know more than I do, but I must
say that you have got sometimes a very roundabout way of coming to the
pint. I mean no offence, and I don't blame you. It's all along of the
company you have kept. You are--it's the only fault you have got--you
are oudaciously fond of hard words. Don't let the young uns larn 'em.
That's all I have to say, and we'll talk of the pay some other time."

At this turn of the conversation, Thompson insisted upon my lighting a
pipe and joining him in the gin and water. We smoked for many minutes in
silence. My friend had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and had drawn the table
nearer to his warm and hospitable fire. A log of wood was burning slowly
and steadily away, and a small, bright--very bright--copper kettle
overlooked it from the hob. My host had fixed his feet upon the
fender--the unemployed hand was in his corduroys. His eyes were three
parts closed, enjoying what from its origin may be called--a pure
tobacco-born soliloquy. The smoke arose in thin white curls from the
clay cup, and at regular periods stole blandly from the corner of his
lips. The silent man was blessed. He had been happy at his work; he had
grown happier as the sun went down; his happiness was ripening at the
supper table; _now_, half-asleep and half-awake--half conscious and half
dreaming--wholly free from care, and yet not free from pregnant
thought--the labourer had reached the summit of felicity, and was at
peace--intensely.

A few evenings only had elapsed after this interesting meeting, before
I was again spending a delicious hour or two with the simple-hearted and
generous upholsterer. There was something very winning in these moments
snatched and secured from the hurricane of life, and passed in thorough
and undisturbed enjoyment. My friend, notwithstanding that he had
engaged my services, and was pleased to express his satisfaction at the
mode in which I rendered them, was yet alive to my interests, and too
apprehensive of injuring them by keeping me away from loftier
employment. He did not like my being _thrown out_ of the chapel,
especially after he had heard my determination not to forsake
immediately the sect to which I had attached myself. He was indifferent
to his own fate. His worldly prospects could not be injured by his
expulsion; on the contrary, he slyly assured me that "his n