the back of it; then she looked round for a
moment as if in search of something. Her eye
lighted on a small but heavy square of black
marble which lay on the writing-table, and
served as a paper-press. She then spread the
coat on the table, placed the square of marble on
it, and rolled it tightly round the heavy centre,
folding and pressing the parcel into the smallest
possible dimensions. This done, she tied it
tightly with a strong cord, and, concealing it
under her shawl, went swiftly out of the house.
No one saw her issue from the grim, gloomy
door—the neighbouring housemaids had not
commenced their matutinal task of door-step
cleaning, alleviated by gossip—and she went
away down the street, completely unobserved.
Went away, with her head down, her face
hidden, with a quick, steady step and an unfaltering
purpose. There were not many wayfarers
abroad in the street, and of those she saw none,
and was remarked by only one.

Harriet Routh took her way towards the
river, and reached Westminster-bridge as the
clock in the great tower of the new palace
marked half-past six. All was quiet. A few of
the laggards of the working classes were straggling
across the bridge to their daily toil, a few
barges were moving sluggishly upon the muddy
water; but there was no stir, no business yet.
Harriet lingered when she had reached the
centre of the bridge; a figure was just vanishing
at the southern end, the northern was
clear of people. She leaned over the parapet,
and looked down—no boat, no barge was near.
Then she dropped the parcel she had carried
into the river, and the water closed over it.
Without the delay of an instant, she turned and
retraced her steps towards home. As she neared
South Molton-street, she found several of the
shops open, and entering one, she purchased a
black marble letter press. It was not precisely
similar to that with which she had weighted the
parcel, which now lay in the bed of the river;
but the difference was trifling, and not to be
perceived by the eye of a stranger.

Near the house in which the Rouths occupied
apartments there was an archway which formed
the entrance to some mews. As she passed this
open space, Harriet's glance fell upon the inquisitive
countenance of a keen-looking, ragged
street boy, who was lying contentedly on his
back under the archway, with his arms under
his head, and propped upon the kerbstone. A
sudden impulse arrested her steps. "Have you no
other place to lie than here?" she asked the boy,
who jumped up with great alacrity, and stood
before her in an attitude almost respectful.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I have, but I'm
here, waiting for an early job."

She gave him a shilling and a smile—not such
a smile as she once had to give, but the best
that was left her—and went on to the door of
the house she lived in. She opened it with a
key, and went in.

The boy remained where she had left him,
apparently ruminating, and wagging his tousled
head sagely.

"Whatever is she up to?" he asked of himself,
in perplexity. "It's a rum start, as far as I
knows on it, and I means to know more. But how
is she in it? I shan't say nothing till I knows
more about that." And then Mr. Jim Swain went
his way to a more likely quarter for early jobs.

Fortune favoured Mrs. Routh on that morning.
She gained her bedroom unseen and unheard,
and having hastily undressed, lay down
to rest, if rest would come to her—at least to
await in quiet the ordinary hour at which the
servant was accustomed to call her. It came,
and passed; but Harriet did not rise.

She slept a little when all the world was up
and busy—slept until the second delivery of
letters brought one for her, which the servant
took at once to her room.

The letter was from George Dallas, and contained
merely a few lines, written when he was
on the point of starting, and posted at the riverside.
He apologised to Harriet for a mistake
which he had made on the previous night. He
had taken up Routh's coat instead of his own,
and had not discovered the error until he was
on his way to the steamer, and it was too late
to repair it. He hoped it would not matter, as he
had left his own coat at South Molton-street, and
no doubt Routh could wear it, on an occasion.

When Harriet had read this note, she lay back
upon her pillow, and fell into a deep sleep,
which was broken by Routh's coming into her
room early in the afternoon. He looked pale
and haggard, and he stood by the bedside in
silence. But she she sat up, and flung her
arms round him with a wonderfully good imitation
of her former manner, and when she told
him all that had passed, her husband caught her
to his breast with passionate fondness and gratitude,
and declared over and over again that her
ready wit and wonderful fortitude had saved him.

Saved him? How, and from what?

END OF BOOK THE FIRST.

OLD SALISBURY.

THE earliest incident in my life I can remember,
is being taken (fifty-five years ago) in my
nurse's arms to see a man who had been put in
the pillory in the market-place at Salisbury.
The great cross-frame of the pillory was moved
round slowly, to present a front alternately to
each quarter of the compass, from each of which
rained showers of bad eggs, cabbage-stumps, and
other unconsidered trifles, on the undefended
pale face of the poor cowed wretch, who had
been put up to be pelted. I remember crying
because I had not an egg to throw at the man.
Does this not sound like a description of an
African town?

At that time, there used to be on certain occasions
(not necessarily on fair days) large
wooden stages erected in the market-place,
with amphitheatrical seats, for the gentry and
richer people to watch the atheletes and country-
men play single-stick. The blows were nearly all
on the head, and the man whose blood first ran