He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.

‘An’t it nice to see him lying there so quiet?’ said his guide, in an earnest whisper. ‘Oh! you’d say it was, if you had only seen him two or three days ago.’

Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached the bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in the wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller.

‘Why, how is this?’ said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. ‘You have been ill?’

‘Very,’ replied Dick. ‘Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, Sir.’

Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, and took a chair by the bedside.

‘I have sent for you, Sir,’ said Dick — ‘but she told you on what account?’

‘She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don’t know what to say or think,’ replied Mr Abel.

‘You’ll say that presently,’ retorted Dick. ‘Marchioness, take a seat on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me; and be particular. Don’t you speak another word, Sir.’

The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before, without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was concluded, took the word again.

‘You have heard it all, and you’ll not forget it. I’m too giddy and too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you went home fast in your life, go home fast tonight. Don’t stop to say one word to me, but go. She will be found here, whenever she’s wanted; and as to me, you’re pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If you lose another minute in looking at me, Sir, I’ll never forgive you!’

Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him downstairs, reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had dashed away at full gallop.

‘That’s right!’ said Dick; ‘and hearty of him; and I honour him from this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to see you take it as if I might drink it myself.’

Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller’s extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug before the fire.

Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, ‘Strew then, oh strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good-night, Marchioness!’