. . .And he leaned over the paper, and wrote a couple of lines so rapidly, and exactly in the style required, that Septimus looked on in admiration, but only to sigh directly after for his own want of skill.

“Never mind,” he said, “I shall manage it some day;” and he smiled cheerfully, for he had just caught sight of the worn face of his wife. “’Tis a bad neighbourhood this, sir,” he said, to change the conversation; “but it’s cheap for London, I suppose.”

“Doubtless—doubtless,” said the curate; “but it is a sad place; and I know it well, as you may easily suppose. And now, Mr Hardon,” he said as he rose to leave, “do not let me be so great a stranger to you. Ask my advice on matters, and take me into your counsels at all times. Come; you promise?”

Septimus Hardon did not speak, but wrung the curate’s hand; and in the future he did precisely what might have bee. . . Read More