al superfluous
turns and doublings, we find him comfortably established by the
fireside of a small apartment previously bespoken. He is in the next
street to his own and at his journey's end. He can scarcely trust his
good-fortune in having got thither unperceived, recollecting that at
one time he was delayed by the throng in the very focus of a lighted
lantern, and again there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind
his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon he
heard a voice shouting afar and fancied that it called his name.
Doubtless a dozen busybodies had been watching him and told his wife
the whole affair.

Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this
great world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy
bed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee
home to good Mrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself
even for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she
for a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly divided
from her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy true
wife for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human
affections--not that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly close
again.

Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed,
Wakefield lies down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreads
forth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed
bed, "No," thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him; "I will not
sleep alone another night." In the morning he rises earlier than usual
and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are his
loose and rambling modes of thought that he has taken this very
singular step with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without
being able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The
vagueness of the project and the convulsive effort with which he
plunges into the execution of it are equally characteristic of a
feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as
he may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at
home--how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and,
briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances in which
he was a central object will be affected by his removal. A morbid
vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But how is
he to attain his ends? Not, c