his mirth was absolutely hysterical, 'I did not know you were going to talk about private affairs; and when I found out what it was, and that Mr. Meredith did not understand you, I had not the strength to interfere. I was obliged to stuff my pockethandkerchief into my mouth--'

'A very nasty trick,' interpolated the other, savagely.

But his enemies only roared the louder. There are some 'situations' in which the sense of the ridiculous overwhelms all other feelings; no wit, nor even humour, expressed however happily, can approach them as a laughter-moving cause; they recur to us quite involuntarily, and often on the most inopportune occasions—by the grave's side, or in the lonely watches of the night and tickle our very heartstrings. And this misunderstanding between Mr. Greene and the guardian of his beloved object was one of them. His seriousness and ire only fed the flame of mirth in his two companions. They were really sorry for him; they would have looked grave if

they could, and Mr. Meredith particularly wished to do so, now that he understood the real nature of Mr. Greene's application; but the very elements of sobriety were shattered within him, and an attempt at speech only produced a new paroxysm of laughter.

'It is all very amusing, I have no doubt,' said the unfortunate suitor, with an air of austerity that was almost the death of Dick, but you are now at least aware

Mr. Meredith, a stout gentleman to begin with, and by this time quite purple and swollen, held up his hand for silence. Not now,' gasped he; my dear sir, not now. Let us talk about it another time.'

'And in the meanwhile you will be telling everybody you two-and making me the laughing-stock of the house.'

No, we won't-we won't indeed,' answered the other, with the tears in his eyes. 'Talbot will promise not to tell.'

Dick removed his pocket-handkerchief to give the required guarantee, and then stuffed it back again.

Mr. Greene stalked off without a word, like the ghost in 'Hamlet.' Richard kept his promise, which was fortunate for him, as he was presently fated to be in a position greatly more embarrassing than that of his friend, and in which the reticence of Mr. Greene was of still greater importance to him than his own had been in the other

case.

CHAPTER XIII.

A POSTSCRIPT.

'THE world is small,' was an observation made to me once by a person who had gone round it; and the same remark has occurred to others who have stopped at home but looked about them. It is astonishing how constantly (and yet always with a foolish sense of unexpectedness) one knocks against total strangers who are tolerably well acquainted with us, or our belongings. An instance of this happened to Dick on the night on which the theatricals had come off (with complete success). He found himself on a second visit to the supper-table-the visit of business, when the ladies had taken their little pickings,

and gone away-beside an unknown guest. His name is of little consequence, but as a matter of fact it was Townsend, a man about town staying with people in the neighbourhood who had asked leave of Miss Pole to bring their friend 'to your delightful performances.'

'I believe I know an aunt of yours,' said he. Same name, at least' (he had seen Dick's in the play-bill), and comes from Suffolk.'

Dick did not think it likely, and 'with the frankness of his age expressed that view. The stranger had a drawl, and waxed moustachios, which made his acquaintance with Aunt Edith improbable; and then, Dick did not relish telling everybody that she was a Sister of Mercy.

'If her name is Edith, I am right, however,' continued this gentleman. ""Sister Edith," she calls herself; living with her relative, Lady Earnshaw.'

'That is my aunt Edith,' acknowledged Dick.

'Thought so; see a family likeness.