of, but very
thankful for them.

"Ever yours, affectionately,

"T. B."

The above letter, and that to his father, asking for leave to
emigrate, having been written and sent off, Tom was left, on the
afternoon of the day following his upset, making manful, if not
very successful, efforts to shake off the load of depression
which weighed on him, and to turn his thoughts resolutely forward
to a new life in a new country. East was away at the Docks. There
was no one moving in the Temple. The men who had business were
all at Westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the recesses
of their chambers. Those who had none were for the most part away
enjoying themselves, in one way or another amongst the mighty
whirl of the mighty human sea of London. There was nothing left
for him to do; he had written the only two letters he had to
write, and had only to sit still and wait for the answers,
killing the meantime as well as he could. Reading came hard to
him, but it was the best thing to do, perhaps; at any rate he was
trying it on, though his studies were constantly interrupted by
long fits of absence of mind, during which, though his body
remained in the temple, he was again in the well-kept garden of
Barton, or in the hazel wood under the lee of the Berkshire
hills.

He was roused out of one of these reveries, and brought back to
external life and Fig-tree Court, by a single knock at the outer
door, and a shout of the newsman's boy for the paper. So he got
up, found the paper, which he had forgotten to read, and, as he
went to the door, cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match
was going on at Lord's. This gave a new turn to his thoughts. He
stood looking down stairs after the boy, considering whether he
should not start at once for the match.

He would be sure to see a lot of acquaintances there at any rate.
But the idea of seeing and having to talk to mere acquaintances
was more distasteful than his present solitude. He was turning to
bury himself again in his hole, when he saw a white dog walk
quietly up seven or eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and
then turn round, and look for some one to follow.

"How odd!" thought Tom, as he watched him; "as like as two peas.
It can't be. No. Why, yes it is." And then he whistled, and
called "Jack," and the dog looked up, and wagged his tail, as
much as to say, "All right, I'm coming directly; but I must wait
for my master." The next moment Drysdale appeared at