in the Upper House, and drone or hammer away at the Speaker down below,
with more heat than warmth.

He had seen nine hundred wild beasts fed with peppered tongue, in a
menagerie called _L'Assemble' Nationale._

His ears had rung often enough, for that matter. This time his heart
beat.

He had been in the principal courts of Europe; knew what a handful
of gentlefolks call "the World"; had experienced the honeyed words of
courtiers, the misty nothings of diplomatists, and the innocent prattle
of mighty kings.

But hitherto he seemed to have undergone gibberish and jargon:

Gibberish and jargon--Political!

Gibberish and jargon--Social!

Gibberish and jargon--Theological!

Gibberish and jargon--Positive!

People had been prating--Jess had spoken.

But, it is to be observed, he was under the double effect of eloquence
and novelty; and, so situated, we overrate things, you know.

That night he made a provision for this poor woman, in case he should
die before next week.

"Who knows?" said he, "she is such an unlucky woman." Then he went to
bed, and whether from the widow's blessing, or the air of the place, he
slept like a plowboy.

Leaving Richard, Lord Ipsden, to work out the Aberford problem--to
relieve poor people, one or two of whom, like the Rutherford, were
grateful, the rest acted it to the life--to receive now and then a visit
from Christina Johnstone, who borrowed every mortal book in his house,
who sold him fish, invariably cheated him by the indelible force of
habit, and then remorsefully undid the bargain, with a peevish entreaty
that "he would not be so green, for there was no doing business with
him"--to be fastened upon by Flucker, who, with admirable smoothness
and cunning, wormed himself into a cabin-boy on board the yacht, and
man-at-arms ashore.

To cruise in search of adventures, and meet nothing but disappointments;
to acquire a browner tint, a lighter step, and a jacket, our story moves
for a while toward humbler personages.

CHAPTER IV.

JESS RUTHERFORD, widow of Alexander Johnstone--for Newhaven wives, like
great artists, change their conditions without changing their names--was
known in the town only as a dour wife, a sour old carline. Whose fault?

Do wooden faces and iron tongues tempt sorrow to put out its snails'
horns?

She hardly spoke to any one, or any one to her, but four days after the
visit we have described people began to bend looks of sympathy on her,