woman, who has ten shillings a week from me, sets her heart upon earning
her sixpences,--and I give her that privileged luxury,--every visitor
she talks to goes away with the idea that I, the rich Mr. Trevanion, let
her starve on what she can pick up from the sightseers. Now, does that
signify a jot? Good-by! Tell your father his old friend must see him,
--profit by his calm wisdom; his old friend is a fool sometimes, and sad
at heart. When you are settled, send me a line to St. James's Square,
to say where you are. Humph! that's enough."

Mr. Trevanion wrung my hand, and strode off.

I did not wait for the coach, but proceeded towards the turn-stile,
where the old woman (who had either seen, or scented from a distance
that tizzy of which I was the impersonation),--

"Hushed in grim repose, did wait her morning prey."

My opinions as to her sufferings and the virtues of the departed Ho-tons
somewhat modified, I contented myself with dropping into her open palm
the exact sum virtually agreed on. But that palm still remained open,
and the fingers of the other clawed hold of me as I stood, impounded in
the curve of the turn-stile, like a cork in a patent corkscrew.

"And threepence for nephy Bob," said the old lady.

"Threepence for nephew Bob, and why?"

"It is his parquisites when he recommends a gentleman. You would not
have me pay out of my own earnings; for he will have it, or he'll ruin
my bizziness. Poor folk must be paid for their trouble."