mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one

bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a

journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons

worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers

fallen forward asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy

black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or

dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and

showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another

man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss

Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a

scream, and clapped her hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That

somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference

of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see

somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring

at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman

and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples

of The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was

something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much

Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they

had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their

surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross

lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncherthough it

seemed on his own separate and individual accountwas in a

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state of the greatest wonder.

“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross

to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low

tone), and in English.

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her

hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for

so long a time, do I find you here!”

“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?”

asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have

I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel

question?”

“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and

come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come

out. Who’s this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no

means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr.

Cruncher.”

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a

ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said

not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her

reticule through her tears with great difficulty, paid for her wine.