shed for the words which he had dared to
utter.

We have said that William Pitt Scully, Esquire, M.P., occupied the first
floor of Mr. Perkins's house in Bedford Row: and the reader is further
to be informed that an immense friendship had sprung up between these
two gentlemen. The fact is, that poor John was very much flattered
by Scully's notice, and began in a very short time to fancy himself
a political personage; for he had made several of Scully's speeches,
written more than one letter from him to his constituents, and, in
a word, acted as his gratis clerk. At least a guinea a week did Mr.
Perkins save to the pockets of Mr. Scully, and with hearty good will
too, for he adored the great William Pitt, and believed every word that
dropped from the pompous lips of that gentleman.

Well, after having discussed Sir George Gorgon's letter, poor Perkins,
in the utmost fury of mind that his darling should be slandered so,
feeling a desire for fresh air, determined to descend to the garden and
smoke a cigar in that rural quiet spot. The night was very calm. The
moonbeams slept softly upon the herbage of Gray's Inn gardens, and
bathed with silver splendour Theobald's Row. A million of little frisky
twinkling stars attended their queen, who looked with bland round face
upon their gambols, as they peeped in and out from the azure heavens.
Along Gray's Inn wall a lazy row of cabs stood listlessly, for who would
call a cab on such a night? Meanwhile their drivers, at the alehouse
near, smoked the short pipe or quaffed the foaming beer. Perhaps from
Gray's Inn Lane some broken sounds of Irish revelry might rise. Issuing
perhaps from Raymond Buildings gate, six lawyers' clerks might whoop a
tipsy song--or the loud watchman yell the passing hour; but beyond this
all was silence; and young Perkins, as he sat in the summerhouse at the
bottom of the garden, and contemplated the peaceful heaven, felt some
influences of it entering into his soul, and almost forgetting revenge,
thought but of peace and love.

Presently, he was aware there was someone else pacing the garden.
Who could it be?--Not Blatherwick, for he passed the Sabbath with his
grandmamma at Clapham; not Scully surely, for he always went to Bethesda
Chapel, and to a select prayer-meeting afterwards. Alas! it WAS Scully;
for though that gentleman SAID that he went to chapel, we have it for
a fact that he did not always keep his promise, and was at this moment
employed in