than he had felt to be for many a day. He thought over the errors and
idleness, the passions, extravagances, disappointments, of his wayward
youth: he got up from the bed: threw open the window, and looked out
into the night: and then, by some impulse, which we hope was a good one,
he went up and kissed the picture of Fairoaks, and flinging himself down
on his knees by the bed, remained for some time in that posture of hope
and submission. When he rose, it was with streaming eyes. He had found
himself repeating, mechanically, some little words which he had been
accustomed to repeat as a child at his mother's side, after the saying
of which she would softly take him to his bed and close the curtains
round him, hushing him with a benediction.

The next day, Mr. Pidgeon, their attendant, brought in a large
brown-paper parcel, directed to G. Warrington, Esq., with Mr. Trotter's
compliments, and a note which Warrington read.

"Pen, you beggar!" roared Warrington to Pen, who was in his own room.

"Hullo!" sung out Pen.

"Come here, you're wanted," cried the other, and Pen came out.

"What is it?" said he.

"Catch!" cried Warrington, and flung the parcel at Pen's head, who would
have been knocked down had he not caught it.

"It's books for review for the Pall Mall Gazette: pitch into 'em,"
Warrington said. As for Pen, he never had been so delighted in his life:
his hand trembled as he cut the string of the packet, and beheld within
a smart set of new neat calico-bound books--travels, and novels, and
poems.

"Sport the oak, Pidgeon," said he. "I'm not at home to anybody to-day."
And he flung into his easy-chair, and hardly gave himself time to drink
his tea, so eager was he to begin to read and to review.

CHAPTER XXXIV. In which the History still hovers about Fleet Street

Captain Shandon, urged on by his wife, who seldom meddled in business
matters, had stipulated that John Finucane, Esquire, of the Upper
Temple, should be appointed sub-editor of forthcoming Pall Mall Gazette,
and this post was accordingly conferred upon Mr. Finucane by the
spirited proprietor of the Journal. Indeed he deserved any kindness at
the hands of Shandon, so fondly attached was he, as we have said, to
the Captain and his family, and so eager to do him a service. It was in
Finucane's chambers that Shandon in former days used to hide when danger
was near and bailiffs abroad: until at length his hiding-place was
known, and the sherif