know that what I have done so far,
is done to his satisfaction,' faltered Tom.

'Quite right,' said Mr Fips, with a yawn. 'Highly creditable. Very
proper.'

Tom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.

'I shall soon have finished with the books,' he said. 'I hope that will
not terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?'

'Oh dear no!' retorted Fips. 'Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful
how you go. It's rather dark.'

This was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of
HIM. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed
himself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.

But now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom's thoughts
from even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel,
which was a very Nile in itself.

The way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and
having now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning,
it was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and
naturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town
which were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he
became a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and
especially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh
to see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or
pleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change
and freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.

In most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their
landlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be,
no one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people
of the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they
had often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by
seven o'clock. After a two hours' stroll they parted at some convenient
point; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as
methodically as you please.

Many and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market;
snuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the
magnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side
avenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets,
shelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of
asparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a
breastwork; and, at the herb