ore it proceeded to ring its
ten fatal strokes. As they were ringing, Laura began to fold up the
slippers; Martha from Fairoaks appeared with a bed-candle, and a
constant smile on her face; the Major said, "God bless my soul, is it
so late?" Warrington and he left their unfinished game, and got up and
shook hands with Miss Bell. Martha from Fairoaks lighted them out of the
passage and down the stair, and, as they descended, they could hear
her bolting and locking "the sporting door" after them, upon her young
mistress and herself. If there had been any danger, grinning Martha
said she would have got down "that thar hooky soord which hung up in
gantleman's room,"--meaning the Damascus scimitar with the names of the
prophet engraved on the blade and the red velvet scabbard, which Percy
Sibwright, Esquire, brought back from his tour in the Levant, along with
an Albanian dress, and which he wore with such elegant effect at Lady
Mullingar's fancy ball, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park. It entangled
itself in Miss Kewsey's train, who appeared in the dress in which she,
with her mamma, had been presented to their sovereign (the latter by the
L--d Ch-nc-ll-r's lady), and led to events which have nothing to do with
this history. Is not Miss Kewsey now Mrs. Sibwright? Has Sibwright not
got a county court?--Good night, Laura and Fairoaks Martha. Sleep well
and wake happy, pure and gentle lady.

Sometimes after these evenings Warrington would walk a little way with
Major Pendennis--just a little way just as far as the Temple gate--as
the Strand--as Charing Cross--as the Club--he was not going into the
Club? Well, as far as Bury Street, where he would laughingly shake hands
on the Major's own door-step. They had been talking about Laura all the
way. It was wonderful how enthusiastic the Major, who, as we know, used
to dislike her, had grown to be regarding the young lady--"Dev'lish
fine girl, begad. Dev'lish well-mannered girl--my sister-in-law has the
manners of a duchess and would bring up any girl well. Miss Bell's a
little countryfied. But the smell of the hawthorn is pleasant, demmy.
How she blushes! Your London girls would give many a guinea for a
bouquet like that--natural flowers, begad! And she's a little money
too--nothing to speak of--but a pooty little bit of money." In all which
opinions no doubt Mr. Warrington agreed; and though he laughed as
he shook hands with the Major, his face fell as he left his veteran
companion; an