kitchens and other hospitals; and one of ’em, with long service and hard usage, positively lost his senses:—he got so crazy that he was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.’

‘Dreadful!’ said Tom Smart.

The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his feelings of emotion, and then said:

‘However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She would be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of cold in some broker’s shop.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ said the old gentleman. ‘Of you, Tom, I entertain a very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there was anything to drink within its walls.’

‘I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir,’ said Tom Smart.

‘Therefore,’ resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone; ‘you shall have her, and he shall not.’

‘What is to prevent it?’ said Tom Smart, eagerly.

‘This disclosure,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘he is already married.’

‘How can I prove it?’ said Tom, starting half out of bed.

The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it in its old position.

‘He little thinks,’ said the old gentleman, ‘that in the right-hand pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six—mark me, Tom—six babes, and all of them small ones.’

As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less and less, distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart’s eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.

Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.

‘How are you, old boy?’ said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight—most men are.

The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.

‘Miserable morning,’ said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into conversation.

‘Which press did you point to?—you can tell me that,’ said Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.

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