rable and
lonely, and too weak still to get out of bed.

"My landlady is very good and kind to me; but, as for that old vagabond,
Mat, he has been away in the country, I don't know how long, and has
never written to me. Please, please do come! and don't blow me up much
if you can help it, for I am so weak I can hardly keep from crying when
I think of what has happened. Ever yours,

"Z. THORPE, jun.

"P. S. If you have got any of my money left by you, I should be very
glad if you would bring it. I haven't a farthing, and there are several
little things I ought to pay for."

This letter, and the letter to Mr. Thorpe, after being duly sealed and
directed, were confided for delivery to a private messenger. They were
written on the same day which had been occupied by Matthew Grice in
visiting Mr. Tatt and Mr. Nawby, at Dibbledean. And the coincidences of
time so ordered it, that while Zack's letters were proceeding to their
destinations, in the hand of the messenger, Zack's fellow-lodger was
also proceeding to his destination in Kirk Street, by the fast London
train.

Baregrove Square was nearer to the messenger than Valentine's house, so
the first letter that he delivered was that all-important petition for
the paternal pardon, on the favorable reception of which depended Zack's
last chance of reconciliation with home.

Mr. Thorpe sat alone in his dining-parlor--the same dining-parlor in
which, so many weary years ago, he had argued with old Mr. Goodworth,
about his son's education. Mrs. Thorpe, being confined to her room by a
severe cold, was unable to keep him company--the doctor had just taken
leave of him--friends in general were forbidden, on medical authority,
to excite him by visits--he was left lonely, and he had the prospect of
remaining lonely for the rest of the day. That total prostration of
the nervous system, from which the doctor had declared him to be now
suffering, showed itself painfully, from time to time, in his actions
as well as his looks--in his sudden startings when an unexpected noise
occurred in the house, in the trembling of his wan yellowish-white hand
whenever he lifted it from the table, in the transparent paleness of his
cheeks, in the anxious uncertainty of his ever-wandering eves.

His attention was just now directed on an open letter lying near him--a
letter fitted to encourage and console him, if any earthly hopes could
still speak of happiness to hi