hat love means, and he'd take that fair creature,
and drag her through the dirt, and subject her to the scorn
of hardened aristocrats, and crush her spirits, and break her
heart,--just because her father has scraped together a mass of gold.
But I,--I wouldn't let the wind blow on her too harshly. I despise
her father's money. I love her. Yes;--I'll be down upon him somehow.
Good-night, Waddle. To come between me and the pride of my heart for
a little dirt! Yes; I'll be down upon him." Waddle stood and admired.
He had read of such things in books, but here it was brought home to
him in absolute life. He had a young wife whom he loved, but there
had been no poetry about his marriage. One didn't often come across
real poetry in the world,--Waddle felt;--but when one did, the treat
was great. Now Ontario Moggs was full of poetry. When he preached
rebellion it was very grand,--though at such moments Waddle was apt
to tell himself that he was precluded by his two kids from taking an
active share in such poetry as that. But when Moggs was roused to
speak of his love, poetry couldn't go beyond that. "He'll drop into
that customer of ours," said Waddle to himself, "and he'll mean
it when he's a doing of it. But Polly 'll never 'ave 'im." And
then there came across Waddle's mind an idea which he could not
express,--that of course no girl would put up with a bootmaker who
could have a real gentleman. Real gentlemen think a good deal of
themselves, but not half so much as is thought of them by men who
know that they themselves are of a different order.

Ontario Moggs, as he went homewards by himself, was disturbed by
various thoughts. If it really was to be the case that Polly Neefit
wouldn't have him, why should he stay in a country so ill-adapted to
his manner of thinking as this? Why remain in a paltry island while
all the starry west, with its brilliant promises, was open to him?
Here he could only quarrel with his father, and become a rebel, and
perhaps live to find himself in a jail. And then what could he do of
good? He preached and preached, but nothing came of it. Would not
the land of the starry west suit better such a heart and such a mind
as his? But he wouldn't stir while his fate was as yet unfixed in
reference to Polly Neefit. Strikes were dear to him, and oratory, and
the noisy applauses of the Cheshire Cheese; but nothing was so dear
to him as Polly Neefit. He went about the world with a great burden
lying on his