pocket-handkerchief. At length a line of barges snatched him from the
sight of the lingerer; and Ned, slowly turning away, muttered,--"Yes, I
have always heard that Dame Lobkins's was the safest asylum for
misfortune like mine. I will go forthwith in search of a lodging, and
to-morrow I will make my breakfast at the Mug!"

Be it our pleasing task, dear reader, to forestall the good robber, and
return, at the hour of sunrise on the day following Tomlinson's
departure, to the scene at which our story commenced. We are now once
more at the house of Mrs. Margery Lobkins.

The room which served so many purposes was still the same as when Paul
turned it into the arena of his mischievous pranks. The dresser, with
its shelves of mingled delf and pewter, occupied its ancient and
important station. Only it might be noticed that the pewter was more
dull than of yore, and that sundry cracks made their erratic wanderings
over the yellow surface of the delf. The eye of the mistress had become
less keen than heretofore, and the care of the hand maid had, of
necessity, relaxed. The tall clock still ticked in monotonous warning;
the blanket-screen, haply innocent of soap since we last described it,
many-storied and polyballaded, still unfolded its ample leaves "rich with
the spoils of time;" the spit and the musket yet hung from the wall in
amicable proximation. And the long, smooth form, "with many a holy text
thereon bestrewn," still afforded rest to the weary traveller, and an
object to the vacant stare of Mrs. Margery Lobkins, as she lolled in her
opposite seat and forgot the world. But poor Piggy Lob!---there was the
alteration! The soul of the woman was gone; the spirit had evaporated
from the human bottle! She sat, with open mouth and glassy eye, in her
chair, sidling herself to and fro, with the low, peevish sound of fretful
age and bodily pain; sometimes this querulous murmur sharpened into a