d at the carriage
door. A glance told Richard that his squire had something curious on his
mind; and he gave Tom the word to speak out. Tom edged his master out of
hearing, and began sputtering a laugh.

"Dash'd if I can help it, sir!" he said. "That young Tom! He've come to
town dressed that spicy! and he don't know his way about no more than a
stag. He's come to fetch somebody from another rail, and he don't know
how to get there, and he ain't sure about which rail 'tis. Look at him,
Mr. Richard! There he goes."

Young Tom appeared to have the weight of all London on his beaver.

"Who has he come for?" Richard asked.

"Don't you know, sir? You don't like me to mention the name," mumbled
Tom, bursting to be perfectly intelligible.

"Is it for her, Tom?"

"Miss Lucy, sir."

Richard turned away, and was seized by Hippias, who begged him to get
out of the noise and pother, and caught hold of his slack arm to bear
him into a conveyance; but Richard, by wheeling half to the right,
or left, always got his face round to the point where young Tom was
manoeuvring to appear at his ease. Even when they were seated in the
conveyance, Hippias could not persuade him to drive off. He made the
excuse that he did not wish to start till there was a clear road.
At last young Tom cast anchor by a policeman, and, doubtless at the
official's suggestion, bashfully took seat in a cab, and was shot into
the whirlpool of London. Richard then angrily asked his driver what he
was waiting for.

"Are you ill, my boy?" said Hippias. "Where's your colour?"

He laughed oddly, and made a random answer that he hoped the fellow
would drive fast.

"I hate slow motion after being in the railway," he said.

Hippias assured him there was something the matter with him.

"Nothing, uncle! nothing!" said Richard, looking fiercely candid.

They say, that when the skill and care of men rescue a drowned wretch
from extinction, and warm the flickering spirit into steady flame, such
pain it is, the blood forcing its way along the dry channels, and the
heavily-ticking nerves, and the sullen heart--the struggle of life and
death in him--grim death relaxing his gripe; such pain it is, he cries
out no thanks to them that pull him by inches from the depths of the
dead river. And he who has thought a love extinct, and is surprised
by the old fires, and the old tyranny, he rebels, and strives to fight
clear of the cloud of forgotten sensations that settle on