are so knowing. All these twopenny docu- size and dignity took at least a day, part of ments arranged on a side table, old Sedley which he employed in hiring a servant to covered them carefully over with a clean wait upon him and his native; and in inbandanna handkerchief (one out of Major structing the agent who cleared his baggage, Dobbin's lot), and enjoined the maid and his boxes, his books, which he never read; landlady of the house, in the most solemn his chests of mangoes, chutney, and currieway, not to disturb those papers, which were powders; his shawls for presents to people arranged for the arrival of Mr. Joseph Sed- whom he didn't know as yet; and the rest ley the next morning-" Mr. Joseph Sedley, of his Persicos apparatus. of the Honorable East India Company's Bengal Civil Service."

At length, he drove leisurely to London on the third day, and in the new waistcoat. Amelia found him up very early the next The native, with chattering teeth, shuddermorning, more eager, more hectic, and more ing in a shawl on the box by the side of the shaky than ever. "I didn't sleep much, new European servant; Jos puffing his pipe Emmy, my dear," he said. “I was think-at intervals, within, and looking so majestic, ing of my poor Bessy. I wish she was alive, that little boys cried “hooray," and many to ride in Jos's carriage once again. She people thought he must be a governor-genkept her own, and became it very well." And his eyes filled with tears, which trickled down his furrowed old face. Amelia wiped them away, and smilingly kissed him, and tied the old man's neckcloth in a smart bow, and put his brooch into his best shirt frill, in which, in his Sunday suit of mourning, he sat from six o'clock in the morning, awaiting the arrival of his son.

There are some splendid tailors' shops in the High-street of Southampton, in the fine plate-glass windows of which hung gorgeous waistcoats of all sorts, of silk and velvet, and gold and crimson, and pictures of the last new fashions, in which those wonderful gentlemen with quizzing glasses, and holding on to little boys with the exceeding large eyes and curly hair, ogle ladies, in riding habits, prancing by the statue of Achilles at Apsley House. Jos, although provided with some of the most splendid vests that Calcutta could furnish, thought he could not go to town until he was supplied with one or two of these garments, and selected a crimson satin, embroidered with gold butterflies, and a black and red velvet tartan with white stripes and a rolling collar, with which, and a rich blue satin stock, and a gold pin, consisting of a five-barred gate with a horseman in pink enamel jumping over it, he thought he might make his entry into London with some dignity. For Jos's former shyness and blundering, blushing timidity had given way to a more candid and courageous self-assertion of his worth. "I don't care about owning it," Waterloo Sedley would say to his friends, "I am a dressy man." And though rather uneasy if the ladies looked at him at the Government House balls, and though he blushed and turned away alarmed under their glances, it was chiefly from a dread lest they should make love to him, that he avoided them, being averse to marriage altogether. But there was no such swell in Calcutta as Waterloo Sedley, I have heard say; and he had the handsomest turn-out, gave the best bachelor dinners, and had the finest plate in the whole place.

eral. He, I promise, did not decline the obsequious invitations of the landlords to alight and refresh himself in the neat country towns. Having partaken of a copious breakfast, with fish, and rice, and hard eggs, at Southampton, he had so far rallied at Winchester as to think a glass of sherry necessary. At Alton he stepped out of his carriage, at his servant's request, and imbibed some of the ale for which the place is famous. At Farnham he stopped to view the bishop's castle, and to partake of a light dinner of stewed eels, veal cutlets, and French beans, with a bottle of claret. He was cold over Bagshot Heath, where the native chattered more and more, and Jos Sahib took some brandy-and-water; in fact, when he drove into town, he was as full of wine, beer, meat, pickles, cherry-brandy, and tobacco, as the steward's cabin of a steam-packet. It was evening when his carriage thundered up to the little door in Brompton, whither the affectionate fellow drove first, and before hieing to the apartments secured for him by Mr. Dobbin at the Slaughter's.

All the faces in the street were in the windows; the little maid-servant flew to the wicket-gate, the Mesdames Clapp looked out from the casement of the ornamented kitchen; Emmy, in a great flutter, was in the passage among the hats and coats, and old Sedley in the parlor inside, shaking all over. Jos descended from the post-chaise and down the creaking, swaying steps in awful state, supported by the new valet from Southampton and the shuddering native, whose brown face was now livid with cold, and of the color of a turkey's gizzard. He created an immense sensation in the passage presently, where Mrs. and Miss Clapp, coming perhaps to listen at the parlor door, found Loll Jewab shaking upon the hallbench under the coats, moaning in a strange, piteous way, and showing his yellow eyeballs and white teeth.

For, you see, we have adroitly shut the door upon the meeting between Jos and the old father, and the poor little gentle sister To make these waistcoats for a man of his inside. The old man was very much af

fected: so, of course, was his daughter: nor | friend, and her own and George's most kind and affectionate guardian; that she loved him as a brother-but that a woman who had been married to such an angel as that, and she pointed to the wall, could never think of any other union. Poor Polly sighed: she thought what she should do if young Mr. Tomkins, at the surgery, who always looked at her so at church, and who, by those mere aggressive glances had put her timorous little heart into such a flutter that she was ready to surrender at once-what she should do if he were to die? She knew he was consumptive, his cheeks were so red, and he was so uncommon thin in the waist.

was Jos without feeling. In that long absence of ten years, the most selfish will think about home and early ties. Distance sanctifies both. Long brooding over those lost pleasures exaggerates their charm and sweetness. Jos was unaffectedly glad to see and shake the hand of his father, between whom and himself there had been a coolness-glad to see his little sister, whom he remembered so pretty and smiling, and pained at the alteration which time, grief, and misfortune had made in the shattered old man. Emmy had come out to the door in in her black clothes and whispered to him of her mother's death, and not to speak of it to their father. There was no need of this caution, for the elder Sedley himself began immediately to speak of the event, and prattled about it, and wept over it plenteously. It shocked the Indian not a little, and made him think of himself less than the poor fellow was accustomed to do.

The result of the interview must have been very satisfactory, for when Jos had reascended his post-chaise, and had driven away to his hotel, Emmy embraced her father tenderly, appealing to him with an air of triumph, and asking the old man whether she did not always say that her brother had a good heart?

Indeed, Jos Sedley, affected by the humble position in which he found his relations, and in the expansiveness and overflowing of heart occasioned by the first meeting, declared that they should never suffer want or discomfort any more, that he was at home for some time at any rate, during which his house and every thing he had should be theirs; and that Amelia would look very pretty at the head of his table-until she would accept one of her own.

She shook her head sadly, and had, as usual, recourse to the water-works. She knew what he meant. She and her young confidante, Miss Mary, had talked over the matter most fully, the very night of the major's visit; beyond which time the impetuous Polly could not refrain from talking of the discovery which she had made, and describing the start and tremor of joy by which Major Dobbin betrayed himself when Mr. Binney passed with his bride, and the major learned that he had no longer a rival to fear. "Didn't you see how he shook all over when you asked if he was married, and he said, Who told you those lies?' ma'am," Polly said, "he never kept his eyes off you; and I'm sure he's grown gray a thinking of you."

O

But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung the portraits of her husband and son, told her young protégée, never, never, to speak on that subject again; that Major Dobbin had been her husband's dearest

Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest major's passion, rebuffed him in any way, or felt displeased with him. Such an attachment from so true and loyal a gentleman could make no woman angry. Desdemona was not angry with Cassio, though there is very little doubt she saw the lieutenant's partiality for her (and I for my part believe that many more things took place in that sad affair than the worthy Moorish officer ever knew of): why, Miranda was even very kind to Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the same reason. that she would encourage him in the least, the poor uncouth monster, of course not. No more would Emmy by any means encourage her adınirer, the major. She would give him that friendly regard, which so much excellence and fidelity merited; she would treat him with perfect cordiality and frankness until he made his proposals; and then it would be time enough for her to speak, and to put an end to hopes which never could be realized.

Not

She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, after the conversation with Miss Polly, and was more than ordinarily happy, in spite of Jos's delaying. "I am glad he is not going to marry that Miss O'Dowd," she thought. "Colonel O'Dowd never could have a sister fit for such an accomplished man as Major William." Who was there among her little circle, who would make him a good wife? Not Miss Binney, she was too old and ill-tempered; Miss Osborne ? too old. too. Little Polly was too young. Mrs. Osborne could not find any body to suit the major before she went to sleep.

However, when the postman made his appearance, the little party were put out of suspense, by the receipt of a letter from Jos to his sister, who announced, that he felt a little fatigued after his voyage, and should not be able to move on that day, but that he would leave Southampton early the next morning, and be with his father and mother at evening. Amelia as she read out the letter to her father, paused over the latter words; her brother, it was clear, did not know what had happened in the family.

Nor could he; for the fact is that though the | Acre: and a pair of handsome horses were major rightly suspected that his traveling jobbed, with which Jos drove about in state companion never would be got into motion in the park, or to call upon his Indian friends. in so short a space as twenty-four hours, Amelia was not seldom by his side on these and would find some excuse for delaying, excursions, when also Major Dobbin would yet Dobbin had not written to Jos to be seen in the back seat of the carriage. At inform him of the calamity which had be- other times old Sedley and his daughter fallen the Sedley family: being occupied in took advantage of it; and Miss Clapp, who talking with Amelia until long after post- frequently accompanied her friend, had great hour. pleasure in being recognized as she sate in the carriage, dressed in the famous yellow shawl, by the young gentleman at the surgery, whose face might commonly be seen over the window-blinds as she passed.

The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to the Slaughter's Coffee House from his friend at Southampton; begging dear Dob to excuse Jos for being in a rage when awakened the day before (he had a confounded head-ache, and was just in his first sleep), and entreating Dob to engage comfortable rooms at the Slaughter's for Mr. Sedley and his servants. The major had become necessary to Jos during the voyage. He was attached to him, and hung upon him. The other passengers were away to London. Young Ricketts and little Chaffers went away on the coach that day-Ricketts on the box, and taking the reins from Botley; the doctor was off to his family at Portsea; Bragg gone to town to his co-partners; and the first mate busy in the unloading of the Ramchunder. Mr. Jos was very lonely at Southampton, and got the landlord of the George to take a glass of wine with him that day; at the very hour at which Major Dobbin was seated at the table of his father, Sir William, where his sister found out (for it was impossible for the major to tell fibs) that he had been to see Mrs. George Osborne.

Jos was so comfortably situated in Saint Martin's Lane, he could enjoy his hookah there with such perfect ease, and could swagger down to the theaters, when minded, so agreeably, that, perhaps, he would have remained altogether at the Slaughter's had not his friend, the major, been at his elbow. That gentleman would not let the Bengalee rest until he executed his promise of having a home for Amelia and his father. Jos was a soft fellow in any body's hands; Dobbin most active in any body's concerns but his own; the civilian was, therefore, an easy victim to the guileless arts of this goodnatured diplomatist, and was ready to do, to purchase, hire, or relinquish whatever his friend thought fit. Loll Jewab, of whom the boys about Saint Martin's-lane used to make cruel fun whenever he showed his dusky countenance in the street, was sent back to Calcutta in the Lady Kicklebury East Indiaman, in which Sir William Dobbin had a share; having previously taught Jos's European the art of preparing curries, pilaws, and pipes. It was a matter of great delight and occupation to Jos to superintend the building of a smart chariot, which he and the major ordered in the neighboring Long

Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, a dismal scene, indeed, took place at that humble cottage, at which the Sedleys had passed the last ten years of their life. Jos's carriage (the temporary one, not the chariot under construction) arrived one day and carried off old Sedley and his daughter— to return no more. The tears that were shed by the landlady and the landlady's daughter at that event were as genuine tears of sorrow as any that have been outpoured in the course of this history. In their long acquaintanceship and intimacy they could not recall a harsh word that had been uttered by Amelia. She had been all sweetness and kindness, always thankful, always gentle, even when Mrs. Clapp lost her own temper, and pressed for the rent. When the kind creature was going away for good and all, the landlady reproached herself bitterly for ever having used a rough expression to her-how she wept, as they stuck up with wafers on the window a paper notifying that the little rooms so long occupied were to let! They never would have such lodgers again, that was quite clear. After-life proved the truth of this melancholy prophecy and Mrs. Clapp revenged herself for the deterioration of mankind by levying the most savage contributions upon the tea-caddies and legs of mutton of her locataires. Most of them scolded and grumbled: some of them did not pay: none of them staid. The landlady might well regret those old, old friends, who had left her.

As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departure was such as I shall not attempt to depict. From childhood upward she had been with her daily, and had attached her self so passionately to that dear, good lady, that when the grand barouche came to carry her off into splendor, she fainted in the arms of her friend, who was indeed scarcely less affected than the good-natured girl. Amelia loved her like a daughter. During eleven years the girl had been her constant friend and associate. The separation was a very painful one indeed to her. But it was of course arranged that Mary was to come and stay often at the grand new house whith er Mrs. Osborne was going; and where

"I value it more than any thing I have in the world," said Amelia.

Mary was sure she would never be so hap- | them them the old piano. Amelia would py as she had been in their humble cot; have it up in her sitting room, a neat little Miss Clapp called it in the language of the apartment on the second floor, adjoining her novels which she loved. father's chamber: and where the old genLet us hope she was wrong in her judg-man sate commonly of evenings. ment. Poor Emmy's days of happiness had When the men appeared, then, bearing been very few in that humble cot. A gloo- this old music-box, and Amelia gave orders my fate had oppressed her there. She that it should be placed in the chamber never liked to come back to the house after aforesaid, Dobbin was quite elated. “I'm she had left it, or to face the landlady who glad you've kept it," he said in a very senhad tyrannized over her when ill-humored timental manner. "I was afraid you didn't and unpaid; or when pleased had treated her care about it." with a coarse familiarity scarcely less odious. Her servility and fulsome compliments when Emmy was in prosperity were not more to that lady's liking. She cast about notes of admiration all over the new house, extolling every article of furniture or ornament; she fingered Mrs. Osborne's dresses, and calculated their price. Nothing could be too good for that sweet lady, she vowed and protested. But in the vulgar sycophant who now paid court to her, Emmy always remembered the coarse tyrant who had made her miserable many a time: to whom she had been forced to put up petitions for time, when the rent was overdue; who cried out at her extravagance if she bought delicacies for her ailing mother or father; who had seen her humble, and trampled upon her.

Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been part of our poor little woman's lot in life. She kept them secret from her father, whose improvidence was the cause of much of her misery. She had to bear all the blame of his misdoings, and indeed was so utterly gentle and humble as to be made by nature for a victim.

I hope she is not to suffer much more of that hard usage. And, as in all griefs, there is said to be some consolation, I may mention that poor Mary, when left at her friend's departure in a hysterical condition, was placed under the medical treatment of the young fellow from the surgery, under whose care she rallied after a short period. Emmy, when she went away from Brompton, endowed Mary with every article of furniture that the house contained: only taking away her pictures (the two pictures over the bed) and her piano-that little old piano which had now passed into a plaintive jingling old age, but which she loved for reasons of her own. She was a child when first she played on it: and her parents gave it her. It had been given to her again since, as the reader may remember, when her father's house was gone to ruin, and the instrument was recovered out of the wreck.

Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was superintending the arrangements of Jos's new house, which the major insisted should be very handsome and comfortable, the cart arrived from Brompton, bringing the trunks and band-boxes of the emigrants from that village, and with

"Do you, Amelia?" cried the major. The fact was, as he had bought it himself, though he never said any thing about it, it never entered into his head to suppose that Emmy should think any body else was the purchaser, and as a matter of course, he fancied that she knew the gift came from him. " Do you, Amelia ?" he said; and the question, the great question of all, was trembling on his lips, when Emmy replied— Can I do otherwise?-did not he give it me?"

64

"I did not know," said poor old Dob, and his countenance fell.

Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor take immediate heed of the very dismal expression which honest Dobbin's countenance assumed; but she thought of it afterward. And then it struck her, with inexpressible pain and mortification too, that it was William who was the giver of the piano; and not George, as she had fancied. It was not George's gift; the only one which she had received from her lover, as she thought-the thing she had cherished beyond all others-her dearest relic and prize. She had spoken to it about George; played his favorite airs upon it; sate for long evening hours, touching, to the best of her simple art, melancholy harmonies on the keys, and weeping over them in silence. It was not George's relic. It was valueless now. The next time that old Sedley asked her to play, she said it was shockingly out of tune, that she had a headache, that she couldn't play.

Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herself for her pettishness and ingratitude, and determined to make a reparation to honest William for the slight she had not expressed to him, but had felt for his piano. A few days afterward, as they were seated in the drawing-room, where Jos had fallen asleep with great comfort after dinner, Amelia said, with rather a faltering voice, to Major Dobbin

"I have to beg your pardon for something."

"About what?" said he.

"About-about that little square piano. I never thanked you for it when you gave it me; many, many years ago, before I was