Jones is
an all-powerful, cruel devil, placed above all possibility of
retribution. If, however, little Smith could see the omnipotent Jones
being mentally ploughed and harrowed by his papa the clergyman, in
celebration of the double event of his having missed a scholarship and
taken too much sherry, it is probable that his wounded feelings would
be greatly soothed. Nor does it stop there. Robinson, the squire of
the parish, takes it out of the Reverend Jones, and speaks ill of him
to the bishop, a Low Churchman, on the matter of vestments, and very
shortly afterwards Sir Buster Brown, the Chairman of the Quarter
Sessions, expresses his opinion pretty freely of Robinson in his
magisterial capacity, only in his turn to receive a most unexampled
wigging from Her Majesty's judge, Baron Muddlebone, for not showing
him that respect he was accustomed to receive from the High Sheriff of
the county. And even over the august person of the judge himself there
hangs the fear of the only thing that he cannot commit for contempt,
public opinion. Justice! why, the world is full of it, only it is
mostly built upon a foundation of wrong.

Lady Bellamy found George sitting in the dining-room beside the safe
that had so greatly interested her husband. It was open, and he was
reading a selection from the bundle of letters which the reader may
remember having seen in his hands before.

"How do, Anne?" he said, without rising. "You look very handsome this
morning. I never saw a woman wear better."

She vouchsafed no reply to his greeting, but turned as pale as death.

"What!" she said, huskily, pointing with her finger to the letters in
his hand, "what are you doing with those letters?"

"Bravo, Anne; quite tragic. What a Lady Macbeth you would make! Come
quote, 'All the perfumes of Araby will not sweeten this little hand.
Oh, oh, oh!' Go on."

"What are you doing with those letters?"

"Have you never broken a dog by showing him the whip, Anne? I have got
something to ask of you, and I wish to get you into a generous frame
of mind first. Listen now, I am going to read you a few extracts from
a past that is so vividly recorded here."

She sank into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and groaned. George,
whose own features betrayed a certain nervousness, took a yellow sheet
of paper, and began to read.

"'Do you know how old I am to-day? Nineteen, and I have been married a
year and a half. Ah! what a happy lass I was before I marr