looking collection of some dozen cottages, and an alehouse. Ruffianly men, squalid women, filthy children, are its inhabitants. The chief support of this pleasant population is currently supposed to be derived from their connection with the poaching and petty larcenous interests of their native soil. In a word, Little London looks bad, smells bad, and is bad; a fouler blot of a village, in the midst of a prettier surrounding landscape, is not to be found in all England.

Our principal business is with the ale-house. The "Jolly Ploughboys" is the sign; and Judith Grimes, widow, is the proprietor. The less said about Mrs. Grimes's character, the better; it is not quite adapted to bear discussion in these pages. Mrs. Grimes's mother (who is now bordering on eighty) may be also dismissed to merciful oblivion; for, at her daughter's age, she was—if possible-rather the worse of the two. Towards her son, Mr. Benjamin Grimes (as one of the rougher sex), I feel less inclined to be compassionate. When I assert that he was in every respect a complete specimen of a provincial scoundrel, I am guilty, according to a profound and

reasonable maxim of our law, of uttering a great libel, because I am repeating a great truth.

You know the sort of man well. You have seen the great, hulking, heavy-browed, sallow complexioned fellow often enough, lounging at village corners, with a straw in his mouth and a bludgeon in his hand. Perhaps you have asked your way of him; and have been answered by a growl and a petition for money; or, you have heard of him in connection with a cowardly assault on your rural policeman; or a murderous fight with your friend's game-keeper; or a bad case for your other friend, the magistrate, at petty sessions. Anybody who has ever been in the country, knows the man the ineradicable plague-spot of his whole neighbourhood-as well as I do.

About eight o'clock in the evening, and on the same day which had been signalised by Mr. Wray's disclosures, Mrs. Grimes, senior,-or, as she was generally called, "Mother Grimes,"-sat in her arm-chair in the private parlour of The Jolly Ploughboys, just making up her mind to go to bed. Her ideas on this subject rather wanted acceleration; and they got it from her dutiful son, Mr. Benjamin Grimes.

Coom, old 'ooman, why does'nt thee trot up stairs?" demanded this provincial worthy.

"I'm a-going, Ben, gently, Judith! - I'm

a-going!

mumbled the old woman, as Mrs. Grimes, junior, entered the room, and very unceremoniously led her mother off.

"Mind thee does'nt let nobody in here to-night," bawled Benjamin, as his sister went out. "Chummy Dick's going to coom," he added, in a mysterious whisper.

Left to himself to await the arrival of Chummy Dick, Mr. Grimes found time hang rather heavy on his hands. He first looked out of the window. The view commanded a few cottages and fields, with a wood beyond on the rising ground,—a homely scene enough in itself; but the heavenly purity of the shining moonlight gave it, just now, a beauty not its. own. This beauty was not apparently to the taste of Mr. Grimes, for he quickly looked away from the window back into the room. Staring dreamily, his sunken sinister grey eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, encountering there nothing but four coloured prints, representing the career of the prodigal son.

He had seen them hundreds of times before; but he

looked at them again from mere habit.

In the first of the series, the prodigal son was clothed in a bright red dress coat, and was just getting on horseback (the wrong side); while his father, in a bright blue coat, helped him on with one hand, and pointed disconsolately with the other to a cheese-coloured road, leading straight from the horse's fore-feet to a distant city in the horizon, entirely composed of towers. In the second plate, master prodigal was feasting between two genteel ladies, holding gold wine-glasses in their hands; while a debauched companion sprawled on the ground by his side, in a state of cataleptic drunkenness. In the third, he lay on his back; his red coat torn, and showing his purple skin; one of his stockings off; a thunderstorm raging over his head, and two white sows standing on either side of him of them apparently feeding off the calf of his leg. In the fourth

one

Just as Mr. Grimes had got to the fourth print he heard somebody whistling a tune outside, and turned to the window. It was Chummy Dick; or, in other

words, the man with the cat-skin cap, who had honoured Mr. Wray with a morning call.

manners.

Chummy Dick's conduct on entering the parlour had the merit of originality as an exhibition of He took no more notice of Mr. Grimes than if he had not been in the room; drew his chair to the fire-place; put one foot on each of the hobs; pulled a little card out of his great-coat pocket; read it; and then indulged himself in a long, steady, unctuous fit of laughter, cautiously pitched in what musicians would call the "minor key."

"What dost thee laugh about like that?" asked Grimes.

"Git us a glass of 'ot grog fust-two lumps o' sugar, mind-and then, Benjamin, you'll know in no time!" said Chummy Dick, maintaining an undercurrent of laughter all the while he spoke.

While Benjamin is gone for the grog, there is time enough for a word or two of explanation.

Possibly you may remember that the young assistant at Messrs. Dunball and Dark's happened to see Mr. Wray carrying his cash-box into No. 12.