e, and to rub his face with his sleeve. By degrees,
however, the violoncello, in unison with his own frame of mind, glided
melodiously into the Harmonious Blacksmith, which he played over and
over again, until his ruddy and serene face gleamed like true metal on
the anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello and
the empty chair were the companions of his bachelorhood until nearly
midnight; and when he took his supper, the violoncello set up on end in
the sofa corner, big with the latent harmony of a whole foundry full
of harmonious blacksmiths, seemed to ogle the empty chair out of its
crooked eyes, with unutterable intelligence.

When Harriet left the house, the driver of her hired coach, taking
a course that was evidently no new one to him, went in and out by
bye-ways, through that part of the suburbs, until he arrived at some
open ground, where there were a few quiet little old houses standing
among gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he stopped, and
Harriet alighted.

Her gentle ringing at the bell was responded to by a dolorous-looking
woman, of light complexion, with raised eyebrows, and head drooping on
one side, who curtseyed at sight of her, and conducted her across the
garden to the house.

'How is your patient, nurse, to-night?' said Harriet.

'In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do remind me, sometimes,
of my Uncle's Betsey Jane!' returned the woman of the light complexion,
in a sort of doleful rapture.

'In what respect?' asked Harriet.

'Miss, in all respects,' replied the other, 'except that she's grown up,
and Betsey Jane, when at death's door, was but a child.'

'But you have told me she recovered,' observed Harriet mildly; 'so there
is the more reason for hope, Mrs Wickam.'

'Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to
bear it!' said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. 'My own spirits is not
equal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so
blest!'

'You should try to be more cheerful,' remarked Harriet.

'Thank you, Miss, I'm sure,' said Mrs Wickam grimly. 'If I was so
inclined, the loneliness of this situation--you'll excuse my speaking
so free--would put it out of my power, in four and twenty hours; but I
ain't at all. I'd rather not. The little spirits that I ever had, I was
bereaved of at Brighton some few years ago, and I think I feel myself
the better for it.'

In truth, this was the very Mrs Wickam who had superse