omance of the ocean. Did he retire to the small
yard at the rear of the premises and gaze from the back door at the
passing life of a Chelsea by-street, Uncle Porson was looking over his
shoulder, pointing out milkmen with histories, and cabmen with a past.

The second week of his stay was drawing to a close before he fully
realised the horror of his position. His foot, which had been giving him
considerable trouble, was getting much better, though it was by no
means well enough to give him a chance in a foot-race with Mr. Porson or
Charles, and as the family at the Blue Posts realised the improvement,
the attentions of his personal attendants were redoubled. The key of his
bed-room door was turned every night after he had retired, a discovery
he had made the first night after carefully dressing for flight and
spending an hour over the composition of a farewell note to Miss
Tipping. There was no chance of reaching the roof from his bed-room
window, and the pavement below offered him his choice between a wedding
and a funeral.

And amid all this the fiction was maintained of preserving him from his
lawless foes and his own inconvenient devotion to duty. A struggle
for escape was not to be thought of, as the full measure of his
deceitfulness would transpire in the event of failure, and the wedding
drew nearer day by day, while his active brain was still casting about
in vain for any means of escape.

"Next Tuesday," said Mrs. Tipping to her stepdaughter, as they sat
in the much decorated drawing-room one afternoon, "you'll be Mrs.
Robinson."

Miss Tipping, who was sitting next to the skipper, looked at him
languishingly, and put her head on his shoulder.

"I can hardly believe it," she said, coyly.

Flower, who was in the same predicament, patted her head tenderly, as
being easier than replying.

"And I must say," said Mrs. Tipping, regarding the pair, "I'm a plain
woman, and I speak my mind, that if it was me, I should want to know
more about him first."

"I'm quite satisfied, mar," said Miss Tipping, without raising her head.

"There's your relations to be satisfied, Matilda," said Uncle Porson, in
an important voice.

Miss Tipping raised her head and favoured the interrupter with a baleful
stare, whereupon Mr. Porson, scratching his neck feebly, glanced at Mrs.
Tipping for support.

"Our relations needn't come to see us," said his niece, at length. "He's
marrying me, not my relations."

"He's making me