ight
in January; as I approached my lodgings, I turned from a general view of
my affairs to the particular speculation as to whether my fire would be
out; looking towards the window of my sitting-room, I saw no cheering
red gleam.

"That slut of a servant has neglected it as usual," said I, "and I shall
see nothing but pale ashes if I go in; it is a fine starlight night--I
will walk a little farther."

It WAS a fine night, and the streets were dry and even clean for X----;
there was a crescent curve of moonlight to be seen by the parish church
tower, and hundreds of stars shone keenly bright in all quarters of the
sky.

Unconsciously I steered my course towards the country; I had got into
Grove-street, and began to feel the pleasure of seeing dim trees at the
extremity, round a suburban house, when a person leaning over the iron
gate of one of the small gardens which front the neat dwelling-houses in
this street, addressed me as I was hurrying with quick stride past.

"What the deuce is the hurry? Just so must Lot have left Sodom, when he
expected fire to pour down upon it, out of burning brass clouds."

I stopped short, and looked towards the speaker. I smelt the fragrance,
and saw the red spark of a cigar; the dusk outline of a man, too, bent
towards me over the wicket.

"You see I am meditating in the field at eventide," continued this
shade. "God knows it's cool work! especially as instead of Rebecca on
a camel's hump, with bracelets on her arms and a ring in her nose, Fate
sends me only a counting-house clerk, in a grey tweed wrapper." The
voice was familiar to me--its second utterance enabled me to seize the
speaker's identity.

"Mr. Hunsden! good evening."

"Good evening, indeed! yes, but you would have passed me without
recognition if I had not been so civil as to speak first."

"I did not know you."

"A famous excuse! You ought to have known me; I knew you, though you
were going ahead like a steam-engine. Are the police after you?"

"It wouldn't be worth their while; I'm not of consequence enough to
attract them.

"Alas, poor shepherd! Alack and well-a-day! What a theme for regret, and
how down in the mouth you must be, judging from the sound of your voice!
But since you're not running from the police, from whom are you running?
the devil?"

"On the contrary, I am going post to him."

"That is well--you're just in luck: this is Tuesday evening; there are
scores of market gigs and carts return