All the Year Round: A Weekly Journal

of broken crockery, and the corpses of
domestic animals, oyster - shells, cast-off
shoes, and refuse of all kinds. These were
the characteristics of the neighbourhood in
which Mr. Morse resided. His house was
of diminutive size: more like a nest of cup-
boards than a collection of rooms. "But
it's cheap and airy, and near the Rye," he
would sometimes urge in its favour. The
back windows looked on to the canal, and
on that account it was generally necessary
to keep them closed and covered by blinds.
For the canal emitted at times most un-
savoury odours; moreover, the bargemen
who toiled upon its waves were prone to
use the noisiest and naughtiest of language;
while the dirty little boys, who resorted
thither at all hours for bathing purposes,
afforded a spectacle of unadorned nature
upon which civilised eyes could not be ex-
pected to gaze otherwise than with re-
probation and discomfort. Still Josiah
was proud of his dwelling-place. "It's
'ealthy for the children; it's more com-
fortable than lodgings, and ever so much
cheaper; besides which, it's our own. So
long as we pays our rent we're independent
of any and everybody; and we've really a
splendid gardin for Mrs. Hem" (for so he
alluded to his wife), "to get through with
her washing."

Mrs. Morse was one of those small, pale,
flaccid-looking women, whose mission in
the world would seem to be naught if not
maternal. She had always, as it were, a
large family in possession, and much wealth
of the same kind in expectancy. So
far as credit is due to such as increase
its population, Mrs. Morse deserved well
of her country. Other faculties she might
lack, but in this respect the revolving years
found her unfailing.
She was ever to be
seen with a child in her arms, pressing its
tiny hands against her lips as though it
was some curious kind of pipe she was
smoking, the infant's arm the stem, and
the body the bowl.

And Josiah was proud of his children, especially of their number. Upon their quality he was perhaps less entitled to plume himself. Robuster infants might any day be seen anywhere. But so large a family, so phenomenally near to each other in point of age, so liberally sprinkled with twins, could not ordinarily be encountered. As other and richer men vaunt concerning their collections of plate or pictures, so poor Josiah gloried in his congregation of children. If the announcement that so frequently greeted his ears of an addition to his household circle brought with it a mo

ment's anxiety and foreboding, there soon
followed a feeling of content and gratifica-
tion of a most genuine kind. "You can
hardly set your foot down without tread-
ing on a child," he would sometimes say
of his home, with the air of one describing
a delightful and enviable state of things.
Of course it was hard work for him to find
food and raiment for so many. But he
liked hard work. He had known nothing
but hard work all his life. It suited him,
was comfortable to him. His great griev-
ance had been when he could not get work
to do, when the panic in the City, and the
collapse of Piper and Co., had deprived
him of employment. That had been, in-
deed, a trying time for him. His expenses
went on, but his income had stopped.
What are known as "the two ends" could
not any how be made to meet.
To be sure,
he had put by a little for a rainy day,"
but he had never counted upon the day
being quite so rainy, or lasting quite so
long. At one time it seemed to him that
the clouds would never disperse, or the
sun shine again upon him. He would re-
turn from the City, after futile efforts to
obtain occupation, and glare at the murky
waters of the canal at the back of his house
with misanthropic, almost suicidal senti-
ments. His children were a little too
hungry to be a solace to him. His wife was
ill up-stairs, with yet another infant. His
rent was unpaid. The baker had threat-
ened; the butcher had bullied; the parish
rates had been very unpleasant. There
had been a menace of cutting off the water
supply. Happily, just at this juncture
young Mr. Peck had been met with. The
tide turned. Josiah was as prosperous as
he had ever been in his life. Indeed, he
had never before been in receipt of so large
a salary. There seemed every prospect of
things going on now very smoothly and
happily in Pleasant-terrace, for so was en-
titled, not too appropriately, the row of
houses in which Josiah Morse and his
family resided.

CHAPTER III.

THERE was a great deal to be done at the office of the Great Patagonian Railway Company. Much issuing of circulars, advertising, and distributing of prospectuses, with lists of the board of directors, estimates of probable profits, and particulars of the enterprise. Then came the receipt of numberless applications for shares, and an allotment of scrip certificates. For months Josiah Morse had his hands very full indeed. He was at work day and

night. He did not so much object to this, for he was paid for "over-time," and was in such wise enabled to discharge the liabilities he had incurred during his period of forced abstinence from toil. Still he found his new duties very arduous. The secretary did not spare the old servant of his disbanded, firm. "I know I can rely upon you, Morse," Mr. Peck would say; "so I will leave you to attend to these matters. The other fellows are strangers to me; but you I know, and can trust. Be sure not to quit the office until this job's disposed of." Thereupon Josiah would find a severe burden of labour imposed upon him, while Mr. Peck, in the glossiest of clothes, and a flower in his button-hole, would turn his back upon the City, and disport himself at the West End. He was of genial disposition, and fond of society. His affable presence and cheery conversational powers obtained for him acceptance in all sorts of quarters. The City dandy was a highly popular man. Impertinent he might be, but still only in a goodnatured way. Flippant perhaps, but not disagreeably so. He dressed well, and lived well. His "little dinners" at his club were really most admirable entertainments. And then he was a person worth knowing, people said. He could possibly distribute slices of the good fortune which pertained to the Great Patagonian Railway Company. The shares were at a premium; an allotment at par was well worth having; was a certain bonus to the allottee. The reserve of shares for the native investors of Patagonia might bear a little diminution in this way. For, after all, it was, not so very certain that any native investors really existed. The misadventures of the firm of Piper and Co. were now forgotten, or were attributed to the misconduct of the departed members of the house. At any rate, Mr. Adolphus Peck was acquitted of blame in the matter. A junior partner, how could he possibly prevent the seniors doing what they had done? That was the way in which the world now regarded the affair. And of course it was nobody's business at the West End to marvel or to chide because the secretary of the great company chose to leave so large a share of his duties to be discharged by his subordinate, Josiah Morse. What did the West End know of Josiah Morse, indeed? Nothing whatever, it need scarcely be said. Still it was hard upon Josial. He, rejoiced at the compliments paid him by one of his old and much-revered employers, at

the value set upon his services, at the confidence placed in his integrity; but he felt that his responsibilities were onerous indeed. His labour was incessant. He had no respite. There was more and more work to be done. A numerous staff of clerks assisted him, but still the duties of supervision and instruction rested with him. The correspondence of the company was undertaken by Mr. Peck, and accomplished expeditiously, for the secretary was a neat and skilful writer of letters: but he required much preliminary cramming from Josiah, who had not himself much epistolary faculty, who knew what should be said, but scarcely the most fitting way of saying it. Then came extraordinary meetings of shareholders; calls upon the shares; extension of the capital of the company; the issue of dividend warrants to the proprietors; the raising of funds by means of debentures, convertible and non-convertible into capital stock. It was enough to turn any man's brain. At times Josiah hardly knew what he was saying or what he was doing. He was so overwhelmed with business. Then came contracts with manufacturers of rolling stock, with coal and iron merchants, and various other traders; the publishing of specifications, the receipt and opening of sealed tenders, and multitudinous transactions thence arising. Meantime the register of shareholders was swelling to the proportions of a Post Office Directory. The board was meeting incessantly, and for the better transaction of business was subdividing itself into special committees. Now and again auditors were overhauling and inspecting the books and accounts, of the company. But the whole prodigious: turmoil resulting from the originating and launching of the Great Patagonian Railway Company is not. to be described, or even a notion of it conveyed, by any ordinary measure of narrative. Josiah Morse had prayed for work. It had come upon him with a vengeance.

"That 'orrid City!" Mrs. Morse was now frequently found to exclaim. A little unreasonably, perhaps, for, but for the City, how would she and her many little ones have fared? But wives are apt thus thoughtlessly to contemn their husbands' pursuits, forgetful that these have pecuniary results of an important kind. To despise the City is in many cases to despise income, well-being, life itself. Few can afford the luxury of such contempt. But poor Mrs. Morse simply meant to convey her regret that her husband should be ever so pressingly

man. If she ventured a complaint, how-
ever timidly and mildly expressed, he
answered her harshly, or thrust money
into her hands abruptly. He had not been
wont to treat her so.
She prized money,
of course. She was a sensible woman, and
a mother; she knew the cost of things,
and the needs of a large family; but still
she loved her husband, and set store upon
his affection. What had come to him?

He was a man of small stature, rather feeble frame, and colourless complexion. He dressed simply, in dark-coloured clothes, wearing a black satin stock, with a visible buckle on the nape of his neck, and a hat tilted backward, as though not sufficiently capacious to contain his forehead. He was bald, with just a fringe of dry, tawny, untidy hair decking his occiput, and a crescent of pallid, fluffy whisker on either cheek-bone. He was myoptic, and always wore spectacles. It may be gathered that there was nothing very impressive, or picturesque about his presence.

occupied and so long absent from her side. She saw very little of him now. He left home early and he returned late. He rarely beheld his children. He was so wearied when he came back from the City, that he wanted nothing so much as quiet, rest, and sleep; to be let alone in fact. And at that time his offspring had been all put to bed. His faithful partner had always ready for him something nice in the way of supper -something hot at any rate. She perceived with pain that his appetite was failing him. Even his once dearly loved dish of tripe had no charms for him now. His digestive powers were disorganised. And his temper was no longer what it had been. He was growing morose, surly, and sulky. He was disinclined for converse of any kind upon any subject. Directly he came in he would kick off his boots, light his favourite clay pipe, mix himself a strong tumbler of gin-and-water-the spirit being curiously odorous of turpentine-fling himself upon the sofa, and then-he hadn't a word for any one. He objected to being addressed He had returned home one night later, and even by his wife, the mother of his chil- apparently more jaded and exhausted, than dren. Many hours of his Sunday even-usual. His facial expression betrayed loss once how fondly looked forward to as a day of rest and relaxation !-he was now compelled to devote to arrears of work brought home from the office of the great company. He abandoned his chapel. He was actually rude to his once favourite minister when he happened to look in quite by chance for a friendly cup of tea and a muffin in the evening he had been made welcome on previous occasions, after the achievement of his labours of the seventh day-and then -it was very painful to Mrs. MorseJosiah had spoken with undue severity to the children. It was even alleged of him --but one is loth to credit it-that in a moment of angry forgetfulness, he had positively slapped, and passionately, certain of the twins. It was clear that things were now hardly as they should be in Pleasant

terrace.

All debts had been paid, and there was money to spare. A new carpet had been purchased for the front sitting-room, and the elder children of the female sex were receiving lessons in French and music at a day school in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Morse had been treated with a silk dress of the substantial texture almost of the crackling of pork, and a bonnet that was quite a flower-show in itself. Still her heart was heavy within her silken bodice, and her head was uneasy for all its floral glories. Her Josiah was a changed

of temper, and his actions were remarkable
for their abruptness and impetuosity. Mrs.
Morse observed with pain that his hands
were very tremulous, and that the bottle
and the tumbler clattered strangely to-
gether, as he prepared for himself his
nightly drink. The turpentine odour was
very strong in the room.
He had some
difficulty in lighting his pipe, but with a
needless explosion of anger, he declined
assistance in that operation. His voice was
husky, and flat in tone. What had come
to him? Mrs. Morse again asked herself.
Was he sober? She winced at the thought
of the inquiry.

She ventured tenderly to place her cool, thin hand upon his forehead as he reclined on the sofa, apparently in a state of savage torpor. How his forehead burned!

"I don't think I'd drink any more tonight, Josh, dear," she said, and very timidly she tried to remove his tumbler. He was very angry.

"Let me be, can't you?" he cried. "Can't I even have a moment's peace in my own house? There, that's what you want, I suppose." He flung upon the table a handful of sovereigns; some of them fell, his action was so vehement, and rolled about the floor. "There's plenty more where they come from," he said, with a wild and acrid laugh, as his wife stooped to search for the fallen coins; "and now

go to bed." Presently she left him. She had rarely before been so frightened or so distressed.

She could not sleep. Was it safe to leave him? she asked. Was there no danger that he might set the house on fire? Not that he was intoxicated; she could not, would not, think that. "He had his senses about him," as she expressed it. And yet his aspect and manner were certainly very strange. Long hours she waited in great perturbation of mind for him to come up-stairs. Her only solace meanwhile had been to stoop now and then, and gently kiss the soft cheek of her last baby, asleep in its cradle close to the bedside. At length she heard his approach. His footsteps were uneven and very heavy. The banisters creaked noisily, as he clutched them, and pulled himself up with their aid.

The light was very dim in the bedroom. Still she could see that Josiah's face was of a ghastly pallor. She half-closed her eyes, simulating sleep. But her ears were alert to the sound of his every movement.

"Hemmer!" he said-for so he always called her, but she had been christened Emma-"are you awake ?" His voice was not wrathful now, but weak and faint as from alarm.

"What is it, Josh dear ?" she asked.
"Send for a policeman."
"A policeman, Josh ?"

"Send for a policeman, I say."

"Is it thieves ?" and at the thought she took her child from its cradle, and pressed it to her bosom. It was to her the most precious thing in the house, and impulsively she thought that the thieves, if thieves were indeed at work in Pleasantterrace, would be of a like opinion. She did not, of course, know much about the sentiments of burglars on such subjects.

"Yes, it's thieves," said Josh, with a feeble, husky laugh. "But not as you mcan. I'm a thief. Fetch a policeman. Let me give myself up. I'm a thief, I say. I want to get it off my mind. I want all the world to know it. Do you hear? I say I'm a thief.”

justice have me. Let me be handcuffedlocked up-sent to the hulks. I deserve it all. I make no defence. I plead guilty to the charge. I haven't a word to say for myself. I'm a scoundrel out and out. I can't make out why I done it. Still I done it, and the law must take me. I must stand in the dock and hear my sentence. It's ruin of course, but that can't be helped now. I ought to have thought of it before. Yes, it's ruin. There isn't a doubt about that." He was strangely excited.

"But the children, Josh!" she pleaded in agonised tones. True woman and mother, they stood first in her thoughts. "The children, Josh!" Her voice was indescribably touching. He burst into tears.

"Poor things!" he cried. "I've ruined the lot of 'em. They're a thief's children all, even to the baby in your arms, Hemmer! They'll be pointed at in the streets, and called after as they go to school. They mustn't go any more. Poor things! getting on so nice too, and me so proud of them. But it's all over now. It's ruin, beggary; and it's me that's done it.” Oh, Josh!"

"Fetch a policeman!" he cried again. And then he fell down heavily. He had fainted.

She replaced the baby in its cradle-it was very good-it did not cry, did not even wake-and was at his side in a moment plying restoratives. In a few minutes he was conscious, or semi-conscious, again. He stared vacantly about, muttered unintelligibly, and then closing his eyes, sank into a troubled, painful sleep. He was lying on the floor just as he had fallen, with his weary, burning head supported by her arm. She feared to move lest she should disturb him. So, cold and numbed, and intensely miserable, she retained for some hours the same cramped attitude. Her tearful eyes turning now to the helpless baby in the cradle, now to her suffering husband. Poor woman!

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