ults--I suppose you will not deny that
you have some little faults--you are still my brother."

Marcus smiled, and thought how foolish it was to quarrel with the
whimsical but not bad-hearted woman. "Well, sister Philomela, you can
see for yourself that I am not ill used here. Comfortable bed, rousing
fire, and warm meals from the restaurant round the corner! The
lieutenant[1] who is in command of this station house turns out to be an
old friend of my boyhood, and treats me more like a guest than a
prisoner. And I must say, that, but for the idea of a prison, I could
live as pleasantly here as at home. Even you can do nothing to lighten
my captivity. But I promise, that _if_ I am held by this coroner's
jury--which, of course, I shall not be--and am sent to the Tombs, then I
will tax your sisterly affection to the utmost."

[Footnote 1: Called sergeant of police under the recent Metropolitan
Act.]

At the mention of that dreadful place, the "Tombs," Mash broke into
sobs again. The touching experiences of Gerald Florville in that house
of despair--as set forth in "The Buttery and the Boudoir"--were
poignantly brought to her mind.

Miss Philomela looked serious as the Tombs loomed up in her mind, and
she would have said something condoling, but for the irritating conduct
of the cook, who annoyed her so much that she decided to leave. She
abruptly shook hands with her half-brother. "It is very easy," said she,
"to point out how certain mistakes might have been avoided. But let the
past go. If you are not acquitted to-morrow, I shall call here again,
notwithstanding you don't seem very desirous to see me. Now, good-by.
Come, hurry up, Mash!"

Marcus shook hands with his half-sister, and also with Mash, who wept
afresh.

In the ante-room, Miss Philomela saw Overtop and Maltboy, upon whom she
bestowed a half smile, and Tiffles, whom she treated to a cordial
grimace, not unmingled with a blush. Tiffles, on his part, was
profoundly polite, and inquired if she were going home. Learning that
she was, he remarked that he had occasion to walk in the same direction,
and accompanied her as she left the station house. Mash followed at a
short distance behind, not because she did not think herself fully as
good as Miss Philomela, but because she wished to indulge unchecked in
the mild luxury of tears.

A new visitor was now announced. He was a curly-headed, neatly dressed
boy of nineteen years. His face was one that is handsome