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'You don't really believe I opened your cab,

do you?'

'Arf-a-crown!'

'What reason could I have to let the snow in ?' 'Arf-a-crown,' putting out his hand doggedly.

'Well, my good man, as you choose to be obstinate, I must read you a lesson. In fourteen minutes from now I'll bring you out your fare,' upon which I opened the door with the latch-key and went in.

Supper was on the table-a pretty and petite meal, which sent forth a delicious fragrance as I entered the room. I told my wife how Cabby had served me, and the awful revenge I intended to take upon him in consequence.

As I told my story, the wind came moaning against the window, and three or four large flakes of snow whirled down the chimney and fell with a fiz upon the bright lid of the stew-pan in which some porter (with et-ceteras) was being mulled. At the same moment my friend outside began to dance upon the door-step and to howl dismally the popular chorus of 'Mush-toola-loo.' I couldn't stand this last. I rushed to the door, gave him his fare, and was about dismissing him with a reprimand, when that little goose of a wife of

mine must needs make her appearance at the door with a glass of the hot porter from the stew-pan. It's always the way. Whenever I wish to act Justice, she is sure to step forward in the character of Mercy. When I knit my brow, she pouts her lip. When I sharpen my knife like Shylock, she begins to plead like Portia. In the present case, however, I think she did the culprit some amount of good; for no sooner had Cabby drained the goblet than he began to weep copiously and call Heaven to witness that he had a host of little Cabbikins at home who would one and all pray for my happiness in this world and the next. He would have continued his oration further (especially as he saw Mrs. Clemency moving away to fetch another glass of the soothing beverage) when—as faster and faster came the snow, bleaker and bleaker blew the wind, rarer and richer smelt the dish of curried rabbit on the table-I hurriedly bade my friend 'Good-night,' shut the door, and, in less than another moment, had dismissed both cab and cabman from my thoughts and was only busy with my fare.

XIV.

THE SEALED SERPENTINE.

OW I came to make up my mind to accept the Old Boy's invitation to go

H

and see the skating on Sunday last I can't tell, but go I did. There was a beautiful bright fire at Peckham-a beautiful bright face beside the fire. Having promised the O. B., however, late on the Saturday night, when we were taking a parting glass of toddy together at the Rhinoceros-and-Temple, to meet him the next day at Apsley House, and take a turn round the Serpentine, to Apsley House I proceeded on Sunday afternoon and went round the Serpentine with the O. B. accordingly.

It was a glorious afternoon, clear and frosty and bracing, with only enough of sunbeam about to alchemize the nose and shield of the Grecian hero who stands all day and night staring at the

dungeon-looking windows of the Wellington Mansion. The old trees in the Park were unlike the statue utterly leafless; so white, too, that each one seemed as if it had been looking back at Summer and had met the fate of Lot's wife in consequence. The clouds were of a greyish-yellow, stippled here and there with points of blue and purple. It is this greyish-yellow which brings out, with such definity, the objects in a wintry landscape—the roof-tops, the fine twigs of the trees, the ruddled backs of the sheep, the little knots of people scattered about, the old cow or two standing beside the frozen pool, the breath of smoke curling up from the distant cottage chimney. To me a wintry scene-Nature in marble-is always beautiful. A moral atmosphere pervades it. It hints of the Last of All Things. I look across a hush of snow when the moonlight and starlight fall upon it when its monumental purity is only defiled by the few dark tracks and furrows which the hungry birds have made in their hopeless search for food-and think of Death and Eternity -of the peacefulness of that after-life which HE, whose name has made this a season of rejoicing, has promised to the sorrowful, the oppressed, the hungry, and the downhearted.

I

Beautiful at all times, most beautiful is a winter landscape in the gloaming, when the sun sets angrily, and the moon seems to creep shivering from the 'blanket of the night' as though she scarcely liked the task of doing duty in the frosty evening. What care we for the Moon? By 'we,' I mean self and Old Boy. We are wrapped up to our chins we have woollen stockings, woollen gloves, woollen scarfs, woollen everything-and care about as much for the Moon as, let us say, the Moon cares for us. We might have got out earlier, certainly,' says my venerable friend, 'but if you only intend to make an Etching of the thing' (only intend!) 'you'll see quite enough now to suit your purpose.'

It was quite a sight,' as the Old Boy said, to see so many folks enjoying themselves on and around the ice. The scene was thoroughly English. In no other country, not even in Russia or Norway, will you see tens of thousands of brave, foolhardy, devil-may-care people endangering their lives for the mere amusement of the thing. Think now a moment. Do you believe there is any other people under the sun who would recognise the humanity of supporting a Society whose aim is to keep a number of poor men standing

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