Charles’ luck seemed certainly to have deserted him at last. And that is rather a serious matter, you see; for, as he had never trusted to anything but luck, it now follows that he had nothing left to trust to, except eighteen shillings and ninepence, and his little friend the cornet, who had come home invalided, and was living with his mother in Hyde Park Gardens. Let us hope, reader, that you and I may never be reduced to the patronage of a cornet of Hussars, and eighteen shillings in cash.

It was a fine frosty night, and the streets were gay and merry. It was a sad Christmas for many thousands; but the general crowd seemed determined not to think too deeply of these sad accounts which were coming from the Crimea just now. They seemed inclined to make Christmas Christmas, in spite of everything; and erhaps they were right. It is good for a busy nation like the English to have two great festivals, and two only, the object of which every man who is a Christian can understand, and on these occasions to put in practice, to the best of one’s power, the lesson of goodwill towards men which our Lord taught us. We English cannot stand too many saints’ days. We decline to stop business for St. Blaize or St. Swithin; but we can understand Christmas and Easter. The foreign Catholics fiddle away so much time on saints’ days that they are obliged to work like the Israelites in bondage on Sunday to get on at all. I have as good a right to prophesy as any other freeborn Englishman who pays rates and taxes; and I prophesy that, in this wonderful resurrection of Ireland, the attendance of the male population at Church on weekdays will get small by degrees and beautifully less.

One man, Charles Ravenshoe, has got to spend his Christmas with eighteen shillings and a crippled left arm. There is half a million of money or so, and a sweet little wife, waiting for him if he would only behave like a rational being; but he will not, and must take the consequences.

He went westward, through a kind of instinct, and he came to Belgrave Square, where a certain duke lived. There were lidits in the windows. The duke was in ffice, and had been called up to town. Charles was glad of this; not that he had any business to transact with the duke, but a letter to deliver to the duke’s coachman.

This simple circumstance saved him from being much nearer actual destitution than I should have liked to see him. The coachman’s son had been wounded at Balaclava, and was still at Scutari, and Charles brought a letter from him. He got an English welcome, I promise you. And, next morning, going to Hyde Park Gardens, he found that his friend the cornet was out of town, and would not be back for a week. At this time the coachman became very useful. He offered him money, houseroom, employment, everything he could possibly get for him; and Charles heartily and thankfully accepted houseroom and board for a week.

At the end of a week he went back to Hyde Park Gardens. The cornet was come back. He had to sit in the kitchen while his message was taken upstairs. He merely sent up his name, said he was discharged, and asked for an interview.

The servants found out that he had been at the war in their young master’s regiment, and they crowded round him full of sympathy and kindness. He was telling them how he had last seen the cornet in the thick of it on the terrible 25th, when they parted right nd left, and in dashed the cornet himself, who caught him by both hands.

“By gad, I’m so glad to see you. How you are altered without your moustache! Look you here, you fellows and girls, this is the man that charged up to my assistance when I was dismounted among the guns, and kept by me, while I caught another horse. What a cropper I went down, didn’t I? What a terrible brush it was, eh? And poor Hornby, too! It is the talk of Europe, you know. You remember old Devna, and the galloping lizard, eh?”

And so on, till they got upstairs; and then he turned on him, and said, “Now, what are you going to do?”

“I have got eighteen shillings.” “Will your family do nothing for you?” “Did Hornby tell you anything about me, my dear sir?” said Charles, eagerly.

“Not a word. I never knew that Hornby and you were acquainted till I saw you together when he was dying.”

“Did you hear what we said to one another?” “Not a word. The reason I spoke about your family is that no one, who had seen so much of you as I, could doubt that you were a gentleman. That is all. I am very much afraid I shall offend you — ”

“That would not be easy, sir.”

“Well, then, here goes. If yon are utterly hard up, take service with me. There.”

“I will do so with the deepest gratitude,” said Charles. “But I cannot ride, I fear. My left arm is gone.”

“Pish! ride with your right. It’s a bargain. Come up and see my mother. I must show you to her, you know, because you will have to live here. She is deaf. Now you know the reason why the major used to talk so loud.”

Charles smiled for an instant; he did remember that circumstance about the cornet’s respected and gallant father. He followed the cornet upstairs, and was shown into the drawingroom, where sat a very handsome lady, about fifty years of age, knitting.

She was not only stone deaf, but had a trick of talking aloud, like the old lady in “Pickwick,” under the impression that she was only thinking, which was a very disconcerting habit indeed. When Charles and the cornet entered the room, she said aloud, with amazing distinctness, looking hard at Charles, “God bless me! Who has he got now? What a fine gentlemanly-looking fellow. I wonder why he is dressed so shabbily.” After which she arranged her trumpet, and prepared to go into action.

“This, mother,” bawled the cornet, “is the man who saved me in the charge at Balaclava.”

“Do you mean that that is trooper Simpson?” said she. “Yes, mother.”

“Then may the blessing of God Almighty rest upon your head!” she said to Charles. “The time will come, trooper Simpson, when you will know the value of a mother’s gratitude. And when that time comes think of me. But for you, trooper Simpson, I might have been tearing my grey hair this day. What are we to do for him, James? He looks ill and worn. Words are not worth much. What shall we do?”

The cornet put his mouth to his mother’s trumpet, and in an apologetic bellow, such as one gets from the skipper of a fruit brig, in the Bay of Biscay, when he bears up to know if you will be so kind as to oblige him with the longitude; roared out:

“He wants to take service with me. Have you any obje............