madam, be assured, whatever nursery tales may teach, have, the very
sharpest of them, their points of honor." The lady and her son departed,
and I turned again to the almost forgotten "case."

Three weeks had nearly glided by, and still no tidings of Mr. Ferret.
Mrs. Grainger, and her sister Emily Dalston, a very charming person, had
called repeatedly; but as I of course had nothing to communicate, they
were still condemned to languish under the heart-sickness caused by hope
deferred. At last our emissary made his wished-for appearance.

"Well, Mr. Ferret," said I, on entering my library, where I found him
composedly awaiting my arrival, "what success?"

"Why, nothing of much consequence as yet," replied he; "I am, you know,
only, as it were, just commencing the investigation. The Leeds parson
that married them is dead, and the old clerk is paralytic, and has lost
his memory. If, however, they were both alive, and in sound health of
mind and body, they could, I fancy, help us but little, as Bilston tells
me neither the Dalstons nor Grainger had ever entered the church till the
morning of the wedding; and they soon afterwards removed to Cumberland,
so that it is scarcely possible either parson or clerk could prove that
Violet Dalston was married to Sir Harry Compton. A very intelligent
fellow is Bilston: he was present at the marriage, you remember; and a
glorious witness, if he had only something of importance to depose to;
powdered hair and a pigtail, double chin, and six feet in girth at least;
highly respectable--capital witness, very--only, unfortunately, he can
only testify that a person calling himself Grainger married Violet
Dalston; not much in that!"

"So, then, your three weeks' labor has been entirely thrown away!"