ished chance of the promotion so repeatedly
promised by Mr Bristles for his donkey; "and I feel on this momintous
occasion, that it is my impiritive duty to endeavour to reinimite the
expiring imbers of amity, and re-knit the relaxed cords of unanimity.
Mr Stickleback, you were wrong--decidedly, powerfully, undeniably
wrong--in denominiting the splindid lucibritions of our illustrious
friend by the name of ridiculous rubbish. Apoligise, apoligise,
apoligise; and I know too well the glowing sympithies of that
philinthripic heart to doubt for a moment that its vibrations will
instantly beat in unisin with yours."

"I never meant to call his writings rubbish," said the subdued
sculptor. "I know he's the greatest writer in England."

"And you, my dear Stickleback, the greatest sculptor the world has
ever seen!" exclaimed the easily propitiated critic. "Why will you
doubt my respect, my admiration of your surpassing talent? Let us
understand each other better--we shall both be ever indebted to the
eloquent Mr Snooksby--(may he soon get on the vestry, the object of
his inadequate ambition;) for a speech more refulgent in simple
pathos, varied metaphor, and conclusive reasoning, it has not been my
good fortune to hear. When our other friends leave me, Stickleback, I
hope you will stay for half an hour. I have a most important secret to
confide to you, and a favour to ask."

The hint seemed to be sufficient. The rest of the party soon retired;
and Bristles and Stickleback began their confidential conclave.

CHAPTER VI.

But another confidential conclave, of rather a more interesting nature
to the parties concerned, took place three days after these
occurrences in the shady walk in St James's Park. Under the trees
sauntered four people--equally divided--a lady and a gentleman; the
ladies brilliantly dressed, stout, and handsome--the gentlemen also in
the most fashionable costume: one tall and thin, the long-backed
Ticket; and the other short and amazingly comfortable-looking, Mr
William Whalley--for shortness called Bill. Whether, while he admired
the trunks of the old elms, he calculated what would be their value in
deals, this narrative disdains to mention; but it feels by no means
bound to retain the same cautious reserve with regard to his
sentiments while he gazed into the eyes of Emily Pitskiver. He thought
them beautiful eyes; and if they had been turned upon you with the
same loving, trusting expression, ten