me he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very
glad.'

Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed
down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in
the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.

CHAPTER XXXVII

IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN
MATRIMONIAL CASES

Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on
the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam
proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which
were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage
dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in
gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy
net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy
shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might
be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own
past life.

Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a
pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting
other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person,
which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of
his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He
still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether
limbs; but they were not _the_ breeches. The coat was wide-skirted;
and in that respect like _the_ coat, but, oh how different! The mighty
cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no
longer a beadle.

There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more
substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from
the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his
uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle
his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his
hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even
holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than
some people imagine.

Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse.
Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced
coat, and staff, had all three descended.

'And to-morrow two months it was done!' said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh.
'It seems a age.'

Mr. Bumble might have