sonage,--a valet, descend from the
box, open the carriage door, and take out--a desk! Of all things human,
male or female, the said carriage was utterly empty.

The valet bustled up to the landlady: "My master's here, ma'am, I think;
rode on before!"

"And who is your master?" asked Mrs. Merrylack, a thrill of alarm, and
the thought of No. 4, coming across her at the same time.

"Who!" said the valet, rubbing his hands; "who!--why, Clarence Talbot
Linden, Esq., of Scarsdale Park, county of York, late Secretary of
Legation at the court of ----, now M.P., and one of his Majesty's Under
Secretaries of State."

"Mercy upon us!" cried the astounded landlady, "and No. 4! only think of
it. Run, John,--John,--run, light a fire (the night's cold, I think) in
the Elephant, No. 16; beg the gentleman's pardon; say it was occupied
till now; ask what he'll have for dinner,--fish, flesh, fowl, steaks,
joints, chops, tarts; or, if it's too late (but it's quite early yet;
you may put back the day an hour or so), ask what he'll have for supper;
run, John, run: what's the oaf staying for? run, I tell you! Pray, sir,
walk in (to the valet, our old friend Mr. Harrison)--you'll be hungry
after your journey, I think; no ceremony, I beg."

"He's not so handsome as his master," said Miss Elizabeth, glancing
at Harrison discontentedly; "but he does not look like a married man,
somehow. I'll just step up stairs and change my cap: it would be but
civil if the gentleman's gentleman sups with us."

Meanwhile Clarence, having been left alone in the quiet enjoyment of
No. 4, had examined the little apartment with an interest not altogether
unmingled with painful reflections. There are few persons, however
fortunate, who can look back to eight years of their life, and not
feel somewhat of disappointment in the retrospect; few persons, whose
fortunes the world envy, to whom the token of past time suddenly
obtruded on their remembrance does not awaken hopes destroyed and wishes
deceived which that world has never known. We tell our triumphs to
the crowd, but our own hearts are the sole confidants of our sorrows.
"Twice," said Clarence to himself, "twice before have I been in this
humble room; the first was when, at the age of eighteen, I was just
launched into the world,--a vessel which had for its only hope the motto
of the chivalrous Sidney,--

'Aut viam inveniam, aut--faciam;'
["I will either find my way, or--make it.]

yet, humble and n