follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, “Here’s a man!”

Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour door. He is a sharp-eyed man — a quick keen man — and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man.

“George,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”

“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr George.

“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door. “I was going down the street here, when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop window — a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand wiolinceller, of a good tone — and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn’t be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma’am? And with you, governor? And Lord,” says Mr Bucket, opening his arms, “here’s children too! You may do anything with me, if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who your father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!”

Mr Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr George, and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. “You pretty dears,” says Mr Bucket, “give us another kiss; it’s the only thing I’m greedy in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of these two, ma’am? I should put ’em down at the figures of about eight and ten.”

“You’re very near, sir,” says Mrs Bagnet.

“I generally am near,” returns Mr Bucket, “being so fond of children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of ’em, ma’am, all by one mother, and she’s still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do you call these, my darling?” pursues Mr Bucket, pinching Malta’s cheeks. “These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr Bucket’s friend, my dear? My name’s Bucket. Ain’t that a funny name?”

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr Bucket, and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of George’s she is particularly glad to see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

“Not in his usual spirits?” exclaims Mr Bucket. “Why, I never heard of such a thing! What’s the matter, George? You don’t intend to tell me you’ve been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for? You haven’t got anything on your mind, you know.”

“Nothing particular,” returns the trooper.

“I should think not,” rejoins Mr Bucket. “What could you have on your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on their minds, eh? Not they, but they’ll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make ‘em precious low-spirited. I ain’t much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma’am.”

Mrs Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr Bucket has a family of his own.

“There, ma’am!” says Mr Bucket. “Would you believe it? No, I haven’t. My wife, and a lodger, constitute my family. Mrs Bucket is as fond of children as myself, and as wishful to have ‘em; but no. So it is. Worldly