und himself pouring out his turbulent heart to Kenelm, confiding to this philosophical scoffer at love all the passionate humanities of love,-its hope, its anguish, its jealousy, it

how much we do sympathize, on the stage, for instance, or in a book, with passions that have never agitated ourselves! Had Kenelm jested or reasoned or preached, Tom would have shrunk at once into dreary silence; but Kenelm said nothing, save now and then, as

himself, by gleams or in flashes, to this strange man who surveyed the objects and pursuits of his fellows with a yearning desi

se crotchets by which he extracted a sort of quaint pleasantry out of commonplace itself; so that from time to time Tom was startled into the mirth of laughter. This big fellow had one very agreeable gift, which is only granted, I think, to men of genuine character and affection

low, watered by the same stream that had wound along their more rural pathway, but which now expanded into stately width, and needed,

to my uncle's house," said Tom; "and I dare say, sir, that you will be glad to

towns. Avarice or ambition go through very mean little streets before they gain the place which they jostle the crowd to win,-in the Townhall or on 'Change. Ha

ding a little boy seven years younger by the hand; a pair of lovers, evidently lovers at least to the eye of Tom Bowles; for, on regarding them as they passed unheeding him, he

k,-a Pomeranian dog with pointed nose and pricked ears. It hushed it

elm, "thou art the dog with the

ficantly; and Kenelm saw, seated under a lime-tree, at a good distance

ntance. You will like him." Tom desired no new acquaint