nds, where I can make more money. You remember when that
Egyptian woman bore the last--positively the last--remains of Margrave,
or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'

'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.

'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked
it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:

'FABER, No. 4.'

I believe it may belong to one of my family--lost, perhaps, in the ocean
of commerce.'

'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung;
let us enter the house.'

CHAPTER II.

'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in
this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the
way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us
how that cold chicken should be carved.'

Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout
in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now
weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket.
Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was
bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.

'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.

'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a
side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in
earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and
romantic dreams.'

'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs.
Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal
more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken
to filling her duties as housewife?'

'To be sure I do.'

The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a
brown one, remarking:

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat
half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would
buy three or four more barrels of pale ale--we are nearly out.'

CHAPTER III.

'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap--on-ly thrippence
a tab-let--takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there
air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'

'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one
as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation
is reported above.

'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''I