up, as the pecuniary affairs of their former owners, there was always great choice in Mr. Brogley's shop; and various looking-glasses, accidentally placed at compound interest of reflection and refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective of bankruptcy and ruin.

Mr. Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned, crisp-haired man, of a bulky figure and an easy temper--for that class of Caius Marius who sits upon the ruins of other people's Carthages, can keep up his spirits well enough. He had looked in at Solomon's shop sometimes to ask a question about articles in Solomon's way of business; and Walter knew him sufficiently to give him good day when they met in the street, but as that was the extent of the broker's acquaintance with Solomon Gills also, Walter was not a little surprised when he came back in the course of the forenoon, agreeably to his promise, to find Mr. Brogley sitting in the back parlour with his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind the door.

`Well, Uncle Sol!' said Walter. The old man was sitting ruefully on the opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes, for a wonder, instead on his forehead. `How are you now?'

Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker as, introducing him.

`Is there anything the matter?' asked Walter, with a catching in his breath.

`No, no. There's nothing the matter,' said Mr. Brogley. `Don't let it put you out of the way.'

Walter looked from the broker to his uncle in mute amazement.

`The fact is,' said Mr. Brogley, `there's a little payment on a bond debt--three hundred and seventy odd, over due: and I'm in possession.'

`In possession!' cried Walter, looking round at the shop.

`Ah!' said Mr. Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head as if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable together. `It's an execution. That's what it is. Don't let it put you out of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and sociable. You know me. It's quite private.'

`Uncle Sol!' faltered Walter.

`Wally, my boy,' returned his uncle. `It's the first time. Such a calamity never happened to me before. I'm an old man to begin.' Pushing up his spectacles again (for they were useless any longer to conceal his emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed aloud, and his tears fell down upon his coffee- coloured waistcoat.

`Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don't!' exclaimed Walter, who really felt a thrill of terror in seeing the old man weep. `For God's sake don't do that. Mr. Brogley, what shall I do?'

`I should recommend you looking up a friend or so,' said Mr. Brogley, `and talking it over.'

`To be sure!' cried Walter, catching at anything. `Certainly! Thankee. Captain Cuttle's the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr. Brogley, and make him as comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don't despair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there's a dear fellow!'

Saying this with great fervour, and disregarding the old man's broken remonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as he could go; and having hurried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of his uncle's sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain Cuttle's residence.

Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were the usual entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omni-buses, waggons, and foot passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the