LITMIR.BIZ

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that would call up the blotted years.

      "I am here, sir," said his clerk, who had been holding deferential watch at a few steps from the table.

      "What do you do here then, sir, all this time?"

      "I waited, sir, because--"

      "You waste and dawdle away twenty or thirty minutes, when you ought to be doing your work. What do you mean?" Mr. Pole stood up and took an angry stride.

      The young man could scarcely believe his master was not stooping to jest with him. He said: "For that matter, sir, it can't be a minute that I have been wasting."

      "I called you in half an hour ago," returned Mr. Pole, fumbling at his watch-fob.

      "It must have been somebody else, sir."

      "Did you bring in this directory? Look at it! This?"

      "This is the book that I brought in, sir."

      "How long since?"

      "I think, not a minute and a half, sir."

      Mr. Pole gazed at him, and coughed slowly. "I could have sworn..." he murmured, and commenced blinking.

      "I suppose I must be a little queer," he pursued; and instantly his right hand struck out, quivering. The young clerk grasped it, and drew him to a chair.

      "Tush," said his master, working his feverish fingers across his forehead. "Want of food. I don't eat like you young fellows. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit. Good wine, mind. Port. Or, no; you can't trust tavern Port:--brandy. Get it yourself, don't rely on the porter. And bring it yourself, you understand the importance? What is your name?"

      "Braintop," replied the youth, with the modesty of one whose name has been too frequently subjected to puns.

      "I think I never heard so singular a name in my life," Mr. Pole ejaculated seriously. "Braintop! It'll always make me think of brandy. What are you waiting for now?"

      "I took the liberty of waiting before, to say that a lady wished to see you, sir."

      Mr. Pole started from his chair. "A foreign lady?"

      "She may be foreign. She speaks English, sir, and her name, I think, was foreign. I've forgotten it, I fear."

      "It's the wife of that fellow from Riga!" cried the merchant. "Show her in. Show her in, immediately. I suspected this. She's in London, I know. I'm equal to her: show her in. When you fetch the Braintop and biscuit, call me to the door. You understand."

      The youth affected meekly to enjoy this fiery significance given to his name, and said that he understood, without any doubt. He retired, and in a few moments ushered in Emilia Belloni.

      Mr. Pole was in the middle of the room, wearing a countenance of marked severity, and watchful to maintain it in his opening bow; but when he perceived his little Brookfield guest standing timidly in the doorway, his eyebrows lifted, and his hands spread out; and "Well, to be sure!" he cried; while Emilia hurried up to him. She had to assure him that everything was right at home, and was next called upon to state what had brought her to town; but his continued exclamation of "Bless my soul!" reprieved her reply, and she sat in a chair panting quickly.

      Mr. Pole spoke tenderly of refreshments; wine and cake, or biscuits.

      "I cannot eat or drink," said Emilia.

      "Why, what's come to you, my dear?" returned Mr. Pole in unaffected wonder.

      "I am not hungry."

      "You generally are, at home, about this time--eh?"

      Emilia sighed, and feigned the sad note to be a breath of fatigue.

      "Well, and why are you here, my dear?" Mr. Pole was beginning to step to the right and the left of her uneasily.

      "I have come--" she paused, with a curious quick speculating look between her eyes; "I have come to see you."

      "See me, my dear? You saw me this morning."

      "Yes; I wanted to see you alone."

      Emilia was having the first conflict with her simplicity; out of which it was not to issue clear, as in the foregone days. She was thinking of the character of the man she spoke to, studying him, that she might win him to succour the object she had in view. It was a quality going, and a quality coming; nor will we, if you please, lament a law of growth.

      "Why, you can see me alone, any day, my dear," said Mr. Pole; "for many a day, I hope."

      "You are more alone to me here. I cannot speak at Brookfield. Oh!"--and Emilia had to still her heart's throbbing--"you do not want me to go to Italy, do you?"

      "Want you to go? Not a bit. There is some talk of it, isn't there? I don't want you to go. Don't you want to go."

      "No! no!" said Emilia, with decisive fervour.

      "Don't want to go?"

      "No: to stay! I want to stay!"

      "Eh? to stay?"

      "To stay with you! Never to leave England, at least! I want to give up all that I may stay."

      "All?" repeated Mr. Pole, evidently marvelling as to what that sounding box might contain; and still more, perplexed to hear Emilia's vehement--"Yes! all!" as if there were that in the mighty abnegation to make a reasonable listener doubtful.

      "No. I really don't want you to go," he said. "In fact," and the merchant's hospitable nature was at war with something in his mind, "I like you, my dear; I like to have you about me. You're cheerful; you're agreeable; I like your smile; your voice, too. You're a very pleasant companion. Only, you know, we may break up our house. If the girls get married, I must live somewhere in lodgings, and I couldn't very well ask you to cook for me."

      "I can cook a little," Emilia smiled. "I went into the kitchen, till Adela objected."

      "Yes, but it wouldn't do, you know," pursued Mr. Pole, with the seriousness of a man thrown out of his line of argument. "You can cook, eh? Got an idea of it? I always said you were a useful little woman. Do have a biscuit and some wine:--No? well, where was I?--That confounded boy. Brainty-top, top! that's it Braintop. Was I talking of him, my dear? Oh no! about your getting married. For if you can cook, why not? Get a husband and then you won't got to Italy. You ought to get one. Some young fellows don't look for money."

      "I shall make money come, in time," said Emilia; in the leaping ardour of whose eyes might be seen that what she had journeyed to speak was hot within her. "I know I shall be worth having. I shall win a name, I think--I do hope it!"

      "Well, so Pericles says. He's got a great notion of you. Perhaps he means it himself. He's rich. Rash, I admit. But, as the chances go, he's tremendously rich. He may mean it."

      "What?" asked Emilia.

      "Marry you, you know."

      "Ah, what a torture!"

      In that heat of her feelings she realized the horror of the words to her, with an intensity that made them seem to quiver like an arrow in her breast.

      "You don't like him?" said Mr. Pole.

      "Not love him! not love him!"

      "Yes, yes, but that comes after marriage. Often the case. Look here: don't you go against your interests. You mustn't be flighty. If Pericles speaks to you, have him. Clap your hands. Dozens of girls would, that I know."

      "But, oh!" interposed Emilia; "if he married me he would kiss me!"

      Mr. Pole coughed and blinked. "Well!" he remarked, as one gravely cogitating; and with

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