ntegrity as the London Trader. Mr. Cheeseman shed a
tear, and put on a new apron, and entirely reformed his political views,
which had been loose and Whiggish. Uprightness of the most sensitive
order--that which has slipped and strained its tendons--stamped all
his dealings, even in the butter line; and facts having furnished a
creditable motive for his rash reliance upon his own cord, he turned
amid applause to the pleasant pastimes of a smug church-warden. And when
he was wafted to a still sublimer sphere, his grandson carried on the
business well.

Having spread the great news in this striking manner, Captain
Stubbard--though growing very bulky now with good living, ever since his
pay was doubled--set off at a conscientious pace against the stomach of
the hill, lest haply the Hall should feel aggrieved at hearing all
this noise and having to wonder what the reason was. He knew, and was
grateful at knowing, that Carne's black crime and devilish plot had
wrought an entire revulsion in the candid but naturally too soft mind
of the author of the Harmodiad. Sir Francis was still of a liberal mind,
and still admired his own works. But forgetting that nobody read them,
he feared the extensive harm they might produce, although he was now
resolved to write even better in the opposite direction. On the impulse
of literary conscience, he held a council with the gardener Swipes, as
to the best composition of bonfire for the consumption of poetry. Mr.
Swipes recommended dead pea-haulm, with the sticks left in it to
ensure a draught. Then the poet in the garden with a long bean-stick
administered fire to the whole edition, not only of the Harmodiad,
but also of the Theiodemos, his later and even grander work. Persons
incapable of lofty thought attributed this--the most sage and practical
of all forms of palinode--to no higher source than the pretty face and
figure, and sweet patriotism, of Lady Alice, the youngest sister of
Lord Dashville. And subsequent facts, to some extent, confirmed this
interpretation.

The old house looked gloomy and dull of brow, with only three windows
showing light, as stout Captain Stubbard, with his short sword swinging
from the bulky position where his waist had been, strode along the
winding of the hill towards the door. At a sharp corner, under some
trees, he came almost shoulder to shoulder with a tall man striking into
the road from a foot-path. The Captain drew his sword, for his nerves
had been