y old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty
trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there's another side to
everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy,
you've no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico
for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the
matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on
fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we'll
banquet, my boy, feast on chops--hot chops--and drink cold beady beer
out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your
tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick,
old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly
bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long
as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,

"Frank Pratt.

"P.S.--I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy
time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?"

"Poor old Frank," said Richard, refolding the letter. "I believe he
cared for little Fin."

There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to
encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless,
dreamless night.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

NEW LODGINGS.

Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him
now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look
of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a
cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank's chambers in the
Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking
stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up
paper, "Back in five minutes."

With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his
portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and
obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.

Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried
to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more
thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the
Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong
as ever.

"Keb, sir--keb, sir," said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the
stand in Saint Clement's Churchyard.

"No, my man--no."

"Better take--why, I'm blest!"