s but a child in the leading-string of
hope." (He looks steadily at Foker, who, however, continues to suck the
top of his stick in an unconcerned manner.)

Francis. "Hope is the nurse of life."

Bingley. "And her cradle--is the grave."

The Stranger uttered this with the moan of a bassoon in agony, and fixed
his eyes on Pendennis so steadily, that the poor lad was quite put out
of countenance. He thought the whole house must be looking at him; and
cast his eyes down. As soon as ever he raised them Bingley's were at
him again. All through the scene the manager played at him. When he was
about to do a good action, and sent off Francis with his book, so
that that domestic should not witness the deed of benevolence which he
meditated, Bingley marked the page carefully, so that he might continue
the perusal of the volume off the stage if he liked. But all was done
in the direct face of Pendennis, whom the manager was bent upon
subjugating. How relieved the lad was when the scene ended, and Foker,
tapping with his cane, cried out "Bravo, Bingley!"

"Give him a hand, Pendennis; you know every chap likes a hand,"
Mr. Foker said; and the good-natured young gentleman, and Pendennis
laughing, and the dragoons in the opposite box, began clapping hands to
the best of their power.

A chamber in Wintersen Castle closed over Tobias's hut and the Stranger
and his boots; and servants appeared bustling about with chairs and
tables--"That's Hicks and Miss Thackthwaite," whispered Foker. "Pretty
girl, ain't she, Pendennis? But stop--hurray--bravo! here's the
Fotheringay."

The pit thrilled and thumped its umbrellas; a volley of applause was
fired from the gallery: the Dragoon officers and Foker clapped their
hands furiously: you would have thought the house was full, so loud were
their plaudits. The red face and ragged whiskers of Mr. Costigan were
seen peering from the side-scene. Pen's eyes opened wide and bright as
Mrs. Haller entered with a downcast look, then rallying at the sound of
the applause, swept the house with a grateful glance, and, folding
her hands across her breast, sank down in a magnificent curtsey.
More applause, more umbrellas; Pen this time, flaming with wine and
enthusiasm, clapped hands and sang "bravo" louder than all. Mrs. Haller
saw him, and everybody else, and old Mr. Bows, the little first fiddler
of the orchestra (which was this night increased by a detachment of the
band of the Dragoons, by the kind per