Chapter Twenty Five.
An Unexpected Gem Found
Although Lewis Stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady resolution which might be almost styled heroic. To tear out the illustrations was impossible, for Nita’s portrait was stamped on every page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. Success, however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the “moraine” which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and Emma, who ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their souls to the Good Physician. This professional work he did as a sort of amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend Lawrence, whose extending practice included that district. It happened also to be the district in which Mrs Roby’s new “cabin” was situated.
These labourers, in what Dr Tough had styled the London gold fields, not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a diamond, which was quite a prize. One such was found by Lewis about this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered, proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear it himself. He and Emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they found old Mrs Roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about the peculiarities of the Captain and his boy.
“By the way,” said Mrs Roby to Lewis, when they rose to go, “a poor woman was here just before you came, askin’ if I knew where she could find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. The two have come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they appear to be very poor. I could not give her Dr Lawrence’s new address, for I don’t know it, so I advised her to apply to the nearest chemist. Perhaps, Mr Lewis, you’ll go yourself and see the poor man?”
“Willingly, and I shall myself call for Lawrence on my way home and send him, if necessary. Come, Emma. Perhaps this may be a case for the exercise of your philanthropy.”
They soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor.
“Ah, sir, you’re too late, he’s dead,” said the woman, in reply to Lewis’s inquiry.
“O how sad!” broke from Emma’s sympathetic spirit, “I am so sorry we are too late. Did you find a doctor?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so I ran back to tell the poor young thing that I’d go fetch one as quick as I could, and I found him just dying in her arms.”
“In whose arms? are not you the daughter—” said Emma.
“Me, miss! oh dear, no. I’m only a neighbour.”
“Has she any friends?” asked Lewis.
“None as I knows of. They are strangers here—only just came to the room. There it is,” she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner door.
Lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter.
It was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. Abject poverty was stamped on the whole place. On the bed lay the dead man, covered with a sheet. Beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a woman. Her dress was a soiled and rusty black. Her hair, fallen from its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. Her arms clasped the dead form.
“My poor woman,” whispered Emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand timidly on her shoulder.
But the woman made no answer.
“She has fainted, I think,” exclaimed Emma, rising quickly and trying to raise the woman’s head. Suddenly Lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face.
“Nita!” he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering the poor faded face with kisses; but Nita heard not. It seemed as if the silver chord had already snapped. Becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, Lewis hastily bore the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while Emma aided him to restore consciousness. They were soon successful. Nita heaved a sigh.
“Now, Emma,” said Lewis, rising, “this is your place just now, I will go and fetch something to revive her.”
He stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet. There was no mistaking the handsome face of the Count even in death. It was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance.
On returning, Lewis found that Nita had thrown her arms round Emma’s neck and was sobbing violently. She looked up as he entered, and held out her hand. “God has sent you,” she said, looking at Emma, “to save my heart from breaking.”
Lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no power to utter a word. Presently, as the poor girl’s eye fell on the bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. “Oh, how he loved me!—and how nobly he fought!—and how gloriously he conquered!—God be praised for that!”
She spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. To distract her mind, if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, Emma ventured to ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar questions. Little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking words and tears, the sad story came out.
Ever since the night when her father met with Lewis at Saxon, he had firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. God had opened his ear to listen to, and his heart to receive, the Saviour. Arriving in London with the money so generously lent to them by Lewis, they took a small lodging and sought for work. God was faithful to His promises, she said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. Her father taught music, she obtained needlework. All was going well when her father became suddenly ill. Slowly but steadily he sank. The teaching had to be given up, the hours of labour with the needle increased. This, coupled with constant nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work. Then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they had begun to accumulate about them.
“Thus,” she said, in conclusion, “we were nearly reduced to a state of destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, God mercifully took my darling father home—and—and—I shall soon join him.”
“Say not so, darling,” said Emma, twining her arms round the poor stricken girl. “It may be that He has much work for you to do for Jesus here before He takes you home. Meanwhile, He has sent us to claim you as our very dear friend—as our sister. You must come and stay with mamma and me. We, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity, which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor Nita, but we are comparatively well off now. Mamma will be so glad to have you. Say you will come. Won’t you, dearest?”
Nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow.
Chapter Twenty Six.
The Dénouement
Being naturally a straightforward man, and not gifted with much power in the way of plotting and scheming, Captain Wopper began in time to discover that he had plunged his mental faculties into a disagreeable state of confusion.
“Gillie, my lad,” he said, looking earnestly at his satellite while they walked one afternoon along the Bayswater road in the direction of Kensington, “it’s a bad business altogether.”
Gillie, not having the smallest idea what the Captain referred to, admitted that it was “wery bad indeed,” but suggested that “it might be wuss.”
“It’s such a perplexin’ state o’ things,” pursued the Captain, “to be always bouncin’ up an’ down wi’ hopes, an’ fears, an’ disappointments, like a mad barometer, not knowin’ rightly what’s what or who’s who.”
“Uncommon perplexin’,” assented Gillie. “If I was you, Cappen, I’d heave the barometer overboard along wi’ the main-deck, nail yer colours to the mast, cram the rudder into the lee-scuppers, kick up your flyin’-jib-boom into the new moon, an’ go down stern foremost like a man!”
“Ha!” said the Captain, with a twinkle in the corner of his “weather-eye,” “not a bad notion.”
“Now, my lad, I’m goin’ out to my villa at Kensington to dine. There’s to be company, too, an’ you’re to be waiter—”
“Stooard, you mean?”
“Well, yes—stooard. Now, stooard, you’ll keep a good look-out, an’ clap as tight a stopper on yer tongue as may be. I’ve got a little plot in hand, d’ee see, an’ I want you to help me with it. Keep your eye in a quiet way on Dr Lawrence and Miss Gray. I’ve taken a fancy that perhaps they may be in love with each other. You just let me have your opinion on that pint after dinner, but have a care that you don’t show what you’re up to, and, whatever you do, don’t be cheeky.”
“All right,” said the stooard, thrusting both hands into his trouser-pockets; “I’ll do my best.”
While these two were slowly wending their way through Kensington Gardens, Emma Gray arrived at the Captain’s villa—California Cottage, he called it—and rang the bell. The gate was opened by Netta White, who, although not much bigger than when first introduced to the reader, was incomparably more beautiful and smart. Mrs Stoutley had reason to be proud of her.
“I did not know that you were to be here, Netta?” said Emma, in surprise, as she entered.
“It was a very sudden call, Miss,” said Netta, with a smile. “Captain Wopper wrote a note to me, begging me to ask Mrs Stoutley to be so good as lend me to him for a day to help at his house-warming. Here is the letter, Miss.”
Emma laughed as she glanced carelessly at the epistle, but became suddenly grave, turned white, then red, and, snatching the letter from the girl’s hand, gazed at it intently.
“La! Miss, is anything wrong?”
“May I keep this?” asked Emma.
“Certainly, Miss, if you wish it.”
Before she could say anything more, they were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Lawrence. With a surprised look and smile he said—
“I have been invited to dine with our friend Captain Wopper, but did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting Miss Gray here.”
Emma explained that she also had been invited to dine with the Captain, along with her mother and brother, but had supposed that that was all the party, as he, the Captain, had mentioned no one else, and had been particular in begging her to come an hour before the time, for the purpose of going over his new villa with him, and giving him her private opinion of it.
“I am punctual,” she added, consulting her watch; “it is just four o’clock.”
“Four! Then what is the dinner hour?”
“Five,” answered Emma.
“The Captain’s wits must have been wool-gathering,” rejoined Lawrence, with a laugh. “He told me to come punctually at four. However, I rejoice in the mistake, as it gives me the great pleasure of assisting you to form an unprejudiced opinion of the merits of the new villa. Shall we begin with an exploration of the garden?”
Emma had no cause to blush at such an innocent proposal, nevertheless a richer colour than usual mantled on her modest little face as she fell in with the Doctor’s humour and stepped out into the small piece of ground behind the house.
It was of very limited extent and, although not surrounded too closely by other villas, was nevertheless thoroughly overlooked by them, so that seclusion in that garden was impossible. Recognising this fact, a former proprietor had erected at the lower end of the garden a bower so contrived that its interior was invisible from all points except one, and that was a side door to the garden which opened on a little passage by which coals, milk, meat, and similar substances were conveyed from the front to the rear of the house.
Dr Lawrence and Emma walked round and round the garden very slowly, conversing earnestly. Strange to say, they quite forgot the object which had taken them there. Their talk was solely of Switzerland. As it continued, the Doctor’s voice deepened in tones and interest, and his fair companion’s cheek deepened in colour. Suddenly they turned into the bower. As they did so, Gillie White chanced to appear at the garden door above referred to, which stood ajar. The spider’s countenance was a speaking one. During the five minutes which it appeared in the doorway, it, and the body belonging to it, became powerfully eloquent. It might have conveyed to one’s mind, as it were, a series of tableaux vivants. Gillie’s first look was as if he had been struck dumb with amazement (that was Lawrence suddenly seizing one of Emma’s hands in both of his and looking intently into her face). Then Gillie’s look of amazement gave place to one of intense, quite touching—we might almost say sympathetic—anxiety as he placed a hand on each knee and stooped (that was the Doctor’s right hand stealing round Emma’s waist, and Emma shrinking from him with averted face). The urchin’s visage suddenly lighted up with a blaze of triumph, and he seized his cap as if about to cheer (that was the Doctor’s superior strength prevailing, and Emma’s head, now turned the other way, laid on his shoulder). All at once Gillie went into quiet convulsions, grinned from ear to ear, doubled himself up, slapped his thigh inaudibly—à la Captain Wopper—and otherwise behaved like an outrageous, yet self-restrained, maniac (that was—well, we have no right to say what that was). As a faithful chronicler, however, we must report that one-half minute later the stooard found Captain Wopper in the villa drawing-room, and there stated to him that it was “hall right; that he didn’t need for to perplex hisself about Doctor Lawrence and Miss Hemma Gray, for that they was as good as spliced already, having been seen by him, Gillie, in the bower at the end of the garding a-blushin’ and a—” Here the spider stopped short and went into another fit of convulsions—this time unrestrained.
Is it necessary to say that Captain Wopper sat at the foot of his own table that day—Mrs Stoutley being at the head—with his rugged visage radiant and his powerful voice explosive; that he told innumerable sea-stories without point, and laughed at them without propriety; that, in the excess of his hilarity, he drank a mysterious toast to the success of all sorts of engagements, present and future; that he called Mrs Stoutley (in joke) sister, and Emma and Lewis (also in joke) niece and neffy; that he called Doctor Lawrence neffy, too, with a pointedness and a sense of its being the richest possible joke, that covered with confusion the affianced pair; and with surprise the rest of the company; that he kicked the stooard amicably out of the room for indulging in explosions of laughter behind his chair, and recommending him, the Captain, to go it strong, and to clap on sail till he should tear the mast out of ’er, or git blowed on his beam-ends; that the stooard returned unabashed to repeat the offence unreproved; that towards the end, the Captain began a long-winded graphic story which served to show how his good friend and chum Willum Stout in Callyforny had commissioned him to buy and furnish a villa for the purpose of presenting it to a certain young lady in token of his gratitood to her for bein’ such a good and faithful correspondent to him, Willum, while he was in furrin’ parts; also, how he was commissioned to buy and furnish another villa and present it to a certain doctor whose father had saved him from drownin’ long long ago, he would not say how long ago; and how that this villa, in which they was feedin’, was one of the said villas, and that he found it quite unnecessary to spend any more of Willum’s hard-earned gains in the purchase of the other villa, owing to circumstances which had took place in a certain bower that very day! Is it necessary, we again ask, to detail all this? We think not; therefore, we won’t.
When reference was made to the bower, Emma could stand, or sit, it no longer. She rose hastily and ran blushing into the garden. Captain Wopper uttered a thunderous laugh, rose and ran after her. He found her in the bower with her face in her hands, and sat down beside her.
“Captain Wopper,” she suddenly exclaimed, looking up and drawing a note from her pocket, “do you know this?”
“Yes, duckie,” (the Captain was quite reckless now), “it’s my last billy-doo to Netta White. I never was good at pot-hooks and hangers.”
“And do you know this letter?” said Emma, holding up to the seaman’s eyes her uncle William’s last letter to herself.
The Captain looked surprised, then became suddenly red and confused.
“W’y—ye–es, it’s Willum’s, ain’t it?”
“The same pot-hooks and hangers precisely!” said Emma, “are they not? Oh!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round the Captain’s neck and kissing him, “uncle William, how could you deceive us so?”
The Captain, to use his own expressions, was taken aback—fairly brought up all standin’.
It had never occurred to his innocent mind that he should commit himself so simply. He felt an unconquerable objection to expressions of gratitude, and perceiving, with deep foresight that such were impending, his first impulse was to rise and fly, but Emma’s kiss made him change his mind. He returned it in kind but not in degree, for it caused the bower to resound as with a pistol shot.
“Oh! wot a cracker, ain’t it just? you’re a nice man, ain’t you, to go poachin’ on other fellers—”
The Captain seized his opportunity, he broke from Emma and dashed wildly at the spider, who incontinently fled down the conduit for coals, cheering with the fury of a victorious Ashantee chief!
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Last
Humbly confessing to Emma Gray that he had no talent whatever for plotting, Captain Wopper went off with a deprecatory expression of countenance to reveal himself to Mrs Roby. Great was his anxiety. He entered her presence like a guilty thing. If, however, his anxiety was great, his surprise and consternation were greater when she received his revelation with tears, and for some time refused to be comforted!
The workings of the human mind are wonderful. Sometimes they are, as the Captain said, bamboozling. If analysed it might have been discovered that, apart altogether from the shock of unexpectedness and the strain on her credulity, poor Mrs Roby suffered—without clearly understanding it—from a double loss. She had learned to love Captain Wopper for his own sake, and now Captain Wopper was lost to her in William Stout! On the other hand William, her darling, her smooth-faced chubby boy, was lost to her for ever in the hairy savage Captain Wopper! It was perplexing as well as heart-rending. Captain Wopper was gone, because, properly, there was no such being in existence. William Stout was gone because he would never write to her any more, and could never more return to her from California!
It was of no use that the Captain expressed the deepest contrition for the deception he had practised, urging that he had done it “for the best;” the old woman only wept the more; but when, in desperation, the Captain hauled taut the sheets of his intellect, got well to wind’ard of the old ’ooman an’ gave her a broadside of philosophy, he was more successful.
“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “you don’t feel easy under this breeze, ’cause why? you’re entirely on the wrong tack. Ready about now, an’ see what a change it’ll make. Look ’ee here. You’ve gained us both instead of lost us both. Here am I, Willum Stout yours to command, a trifle stouter, it may be, and hairier than I once was, not to say older, but by a long chalk better able to love the old girl who took me in, an’ befriended me when I was a reg’lar castaway, with dirty weather brewin’, an’ the rocks o’ destitootion close under my lee; and who’ll never forget your kindness, no never, so long as two timbers of the old hulk hold together. Well then, that’s the view over the starboard bulwarks. Cast your eyes over to port now. Here am I, Captain Wopper, also yours to command, strong as a horse, as fond o’ you as if you was my own mother, an’ resolved to stick by you through thick and thin to the last. So you see, you’ve got us both—Willum an’ me—me an’ Willum, both of us lovin’ you like blazes an’ lookin’ arter you like dootiful sons. A double tide of affection, so to speak, flowin’ like strong double-stout from the beer barrel out of which you originally drew me, if I may say so. Ain’t you convinced?”
Mrs Roby was convinced. She gave in, and lived for many years afterwards in the full enjoyment of the double blessing which had thus fallen to her lot in the evening of her days.
And here, good reader, we might close our tale; but we cannot do so without a few parting words in reference to the various friends in whose company we have travelled so long.
Of course it is unnecessary to say, (especially to our lady readers, who were no doubt quite aware of it from the beginning), that Lawrence and Emma, Lewis and Nita, were, in the course of time, duly married. The love of their respective wives for each other induced the husbands not only to dwell in adjoining villas, but to enter into a medical co-partnery, in the prosecution of which they became professionally the deities, and, privately, the adored of a large population of invalids—with their more or less healthy friends—in the salubrious neighbourhood of Kensington. To go about “doing good” was the business, and became the second nature, of the young doctors. It was long a matter of great surprise to not a few of their friends that though Lawrence and Lewis neither smoked nor drank, they were uncommonly healthy and apparently happy! Some caustic spirits asserted that they were sure budding wings were to be found on the shoulders of the two doctors, but we are warranted in asserting, on the best authority, that on a strict examination, nothing of the kind was discovered. Need we say that Emma and Nita were pattern wives? Of course not, therefore we won’t say it. Our reticence on this point will no doubt be acceptable to those who, being themselves naughty, don’t believe in or admire “patterns,” even though these be of “heavenly things.” It is astonishing, though, what an effect their so-called “perfection” had in tightening the bonds of matrimony. Furthermore, they had immense families of sons and daughters, insomuch that it became necessary to lengthen their cords and strengthen their stakes, and “Calyforny Villa” became a mere band-box compared to the mansions which they ultimately called “home.”
Mrs Stoutley having managed to get entirely out of herself—chiefly by means of the Bible and the London gold-fields and moraines—became so amiable and so unlike her former self, and, withal, so healthy and cheery, that the two great families of Stoutley and Lawrence went to war for possession of her.
The feud at last threatened to become chronic, and was usually carried to an excess of virulence about Christmas and New Year time. In order, therefore, to the establishment of peace, Mrs Stoutley agreed to live one-half of the year with Lewis, and the other half with Lawrence—Lewis to have the larger half as a matter of course; but she retained her cottage in Notting Hill and her maid Netta White, with the right to retire at any moment, when the exigencies of the gold-fields or the moraines demanded special attention; or when the excess of juvenile life in the mansions before mentioned became too much for her. On these occasions of retirement which, to say truth, were not very frequent, she was accompanied by Netta White—for Netta loved her mistress and clave to her as Ruth to Naomi. Being a native of the “fields,” she was an able and sympathetic guide and adviser at all times, and nothing pleased Netta better than a visit to Grubb’s Court, for there she saw the blessed fruit of diamond and gold digging illustrated in the person of her own reformed father and happy mother, who had removed from their former damp rooms on the ground floor to the more salubrious apartments among the chimney pots, which had been erected on the site of the “cabin” after “the fire.” Directly below them, in somewhat more pretentious apartments, shone another rescued diamond in the person of Fred Leven. He was now the support and comfort of his old mother as well as of a pretty little young woman who had loved him even while he was a drunkard, and who, had it been otherwise decreed, would have gone on loving him and mourning over him and praying for him till he was dead. In her case, however, the mourning had been turned into joy.
In process of time Gillie White, alias the spider, became a sturdy, square-set, active little man, and was promoted to the position of coachman in the family of Lewis Stoutley. Susan Quick served in the same family in the capacity of nurse for many years, and, being naturally thrown much into the society of the young coachman, was finally induced to cement the friendship which had begun in Switzerland by a wedding. This wedding, Gillie often declared to Susan, with much earnestness, was the “stunninest ewent that had ever occurred to him in his private capacity as a man.”
There is a proverb which asserts that “it never rains but it pours.” This proverb was verified in the experience of the various personages of our tale, for soon after the tide of fortune had turned in their favour, the first showers of success swelled into absolute cataracts of prosperity. Among other things, the Gowrong mines suddenly went right. Mrs Stoutley’s former man of business, Mr Temple, called one day, and informed her that her shares in that splendid undertaking had been purchased, on her behalf, by a friend who had faith in the ultimate success of the mines; that the friend forbade the mention of his name; and that he, Mr Temple, had called to pay her her dividends, and to congratulate her on her recovery of health and fortune. Dr Tough—who, when his services were no longer required, owing to the absence of illness, had continued his visits as a jovial friend—chanced to call at the same time with Mr Temple, and added his congratulations to those of the man of business, observing, with enthusiasm, that the air of the Swiss mountains, mixed in equal parts with that of the London diamond-fields, would cure any disease under the sun. His former patient heartily agreed with him, but said that the medicine in question was not a mere mixture but a chemical compound, containing an element higher than the mountains and deeper than the diamond-fields, without which the cure would certainly not have been effected.
Need we say that Captain Wopper stuck to Mrs Roby and the “new cabin” to the last? Many and powerful efforts were made to induce him to bring his “mother” to dwell in Kensington, but Mrs Roby flatly refused to move again under any suasion less powerful than that of a fire. The eldest of Lewis Stoutley’s boys therefore hit on a plan for frequent and easy inter-communication. He one day suggested the idea of a boating-club to his brothers and companions. The proposal was received with wild enthusiasm. The club was established, and a boathouse, with all its nautical appurtenances, was built under the very shadow of Mrs Roby’s dwelling. A trusty “diamond” from Grubb’s Court was made boat-cleaner and repairer and guardian of the keys, and Captain Wopper was created superintendent general director, chairman, honorary member, and perpetual grand master of the club, in which varied offices he continued to give unlimited satisfaction to the end of his days.
As for Slingsby, he became an aspirant to the honours of the Royal Academy, and even dreamt of the president’s chair! Not being a madman, he recovered from the disease of blighted hopes, and discovered that there were other beings as well as Nita worth living for! He also became an intimate and welcome visitor at the two Kensington mansions, the walls of which were largely decorated with his productions. Whether he succeeded in life to the full extent of his hopes we cannot say, but we have good reason to believe that he did not entirely fail.
From time to time Lewis heard of his old guide Antoine Grennon from friends who at various periods paid a visit to the glaciers of Switzerland, and more than once, in after years, he and his family were led by that prince of guides over the old romantic and familiar ground, where things were not so much given to change as in other regions; where the ice-rivers flowed with the same aspects, the same frozen currents, eddies, and cataracts as in days gone by; where the elderly guides were replaced by youthful guides of the same type and metal—ready to breast the mountain slopes and scale the highest peaks at a moment’s notice; and where Antoine’s cottage stood unchanged, with a pretty and rather stout young woman usually kneeling in a tub, engaged in the destruction of linen, and a pretty little girl, who called her “mother,” busy with a miniature washing of her own. The only difference being that the child called Antoine “grandfather,” and appeared to regard a strapping youth who dwelt there as her sire, and a remarkably stout but handsome middle-aged woman as her grandmother.
Last, but not least, the Professor claims a parting word. Little, however, is known as to the future career of the genial man of science, one of whose chief characteristics was his reverent recognition of God in conversing about His works. After returning to his home in the cold north he corresponded for some years with Dr Lawrence, and never failed to express his warmest regard for the friends with whom he had the good fortune to meet while in Switzerland. He was particularly emphatic—we might almost say enthusiastic—in his expressions of regard for Captain Wopper, expressions and sentiments which the bold mariner heartily reciprocated, and he often stated to Mrs Roby, over an afternoon cup of tea, his conviction that that Roosian Professor was out o’ sight one of the best fellows he had ever met with, and that the remembrance of him warmed his heart to furriners in general and Roosians in particular. This remark usually had the effect of inducing Mrs Roby to ask some question about his, the Captain’s, intercourse with the Professor, which question invariably opened the flood-gates of the Captain’s memory, and drew from him prolonged and innumerable “yarns” about his visit to the Continent—yarns which are too long to be set down here, for the Captain never tired of relating, and old Mrs Roby never wearied of listening, to his memorable rambles on the snow-capped mountains, and his strange adventures among the—Rivers of Ice.