, though he withheld
the name, retaining only the title, got the literary wedge in for him
at once: and in due course he became a paid contributor to two medical
organs, and used to study and write more, and indent the little stone
yard less than heretofore.

It was about this time circumstances made him acquainted with Phoebe
Dale. Her intermediate history I will dispose of in fewer words than it
deserves. Her ruin, Mr. Reginald Falcon, was dismissed from his club,
for marking high cards on the back with his nail. This stopped his
remaining resource--borrowing: so he got more and more out at elbows,
till at last he came down to hanging about billiard-rooms, and making a
little money by concealing his game; from that, however, he rose to be a
marker.

Having culminated to that, he wrote and proposed marriage to Miss Dale,
in a charming letter: she showed it to her father with pride.

Now, if his vanity, his disloyalty, his falsehood, his ingratitude,
and his other virtues had not stood in the way, he would have done this
three years ago, and been jumped at.

But the offer came too late; not for Phoebe--she would have taken him in
a moment--but for her friends. A baited hook is one thing, a bare hook
is another. Farmer Dale had long discovered where Phoebe's money went:
he said not a word to her; but went up to town like a shot; found Falcon
out, and told him he mustn't think to eat his daughter's bread. She
should marry a man that could make a decent livelihood; and if she
was to run away with HIM, why they'd starve together. The farmer was
resolute, and spoke very loud, like one that expects opposition, and
comes prepared to quarrel. Instead of that, this artful rogue addressed
him with deep respect and an affected veneration, that quite puzzled
the old man; acquiesced in every word, expressed contrition for his past
misdeeds, and told the farmer he had quite determined to labor with his
hands. "You know, farmer," said he, "I am not the only gentleman who has
come to that in the present day. Now, all my friends that have seen my
sketches, assure me I am a born painter; and a painter I'll be--for love
of Phoebe."

The farmer made a wry face. "Painter! that is a sorry sort of a trade."

"You are mistaken. It's the best trade going. There are gentlemen making
their thousands a year by it."

"Not in our parts, there bain't. Stop a bit. What be ye going to paint,
sir? Housen, or folk?"

"Oh, hang it, not houses. F