was a sailor gentleman that stood Dicky treat A
most pleasant-spoken man for a sailor, with a big black beard He used to
meet Dicky here, in the private room up-stairs, and there Dicky used
to do him a turn of his trade--tattooing him, like. 'I'm doing him to
pattern, mum,' Dicky sez, sez he: 'a _facsimile_ o' myself, mum.' It
wasn't much they drank neither--just a couple of pints; for sez the
sailor gentleman, he sez, 'I'm afeared, mum, our friend here can't carry
much even of _your_ capital stuff. We must excuse' sez he, 'the failings
of an artis'; but I doesn't want his hand to shake or slip when he's a
doin' _me_,' sez he. 'Might > spile the pattern,' he sez, 'also hurt'
And I wouldn't have served old Dicky with more than was good for him,
myself, not if it was ever so, I wouldn't I promised that poor daughter
of his, before Mr. Maitland sent her to school--years ago now--I
promised as I would keep an eye on her father, and speak of--A hangel,
if here isn't Mr. Maitland his very self!"

And Mrs. Gullick arose, with bustling courtesy, to welcome her landlord,
the Fellow of St. Gatien's.

Immediately there was a stir among the men seated in the ingle. One by
one--some with a muttered pretence at excuse, others with shame-faced
awkwardness--they shouldered and shuffled out of the room. Maitland's
appearance had produced its usual effect, and he was left alone with his
tenant.

"Well, Mrs. Gullick," said poor Maitland, ruefully, "I came here for
a chat with our friends--a little social relaxation--on economic
questions, and I seem to have frightened them all away."

"Oh, sir, they're a rough lot, and don't think themselves company for
the likes of you. But," said Mrs. Gullick, eagerly--with the delight of
the oldest aunt in telling the saddest tale--"you 've heard this hawful
story? Poor Miss Margaret, sir! It makes my blood--"

What physiological effect on the circulation Mrs. Gullick was about
to ascribe to alarming intelligence will never be known; for Maitland,
growing a little more pallid than usual, interrupted her:

"What has happened to Miss Margaret? Tell me, quick!"

"Nothing to _herself_, poor lamb, but her poor father, sir."

Maitland seemed sensibly relieved.

"Well, what about her father?"

"Gone, sir--gone! In a cartload o' snow, this very evening, he was
found, just outside o* this very door."

"In a cartload of snow!" cried Maitland. "Do you mean that he went away
in it, or that he was fou