the table, and the light--so. Now, stoop,
so--look through that glass, so--and--have you got the right focus?
Yes!--To the right, you beholds the gallant 'ero, Lord Nelson, him as
lost his harm, a just fallin' in the harms of Capen 'Ardy and
Victory.--To the left--but first his lordship is a singin' "England
expects every man to do his dooty." To the left--'

'Well, if that isn't as pretty a picture and as much like life as
anything I ever saw,' said Mr Prothero, interrupting the showman. 'Come
here, mother; Netta, look here.'

Mrs Prothero glanced into the box, which was nothing more nor less than
a penny peep-show, and Owen began again.

'To the right you beholds,' when Netta, impatient, looked through a
second glass, and exclaimed in ecstasy, 'Where did you get this, Owen?'

In answer, the scene shifted, and Owen recommenced.

'Here you beholds Lisbon, that wast city, or rayther what wos Lisbon
after the great earthquake. See the ruins all around, and the women and
children a screamin'; and the priests a-prayin'--those men in robes is
priests, papishers, like them Irish beggars.'

'Hush, Owen,' interrupted Mrs Prothero. 'Look, father, do look here!'

While Mr Prothero and Netta gazed admiringly, Mrs Prothero was off and
returned with Shanno, Mal, and Tom the boy, who were all in a broad grin
of delight at the arrival of their prime favourite, Owen.

He, meanwhile, is in his element; begins with Lord Nelson again, and
makes the whole party take turns. Then he goes to Lisbon; afterwards he
has The Queen of the Cannibal Islands; The Great Fire of London; a
portrait large as life of the immense fat man Daniel Lambert, at sight
of which the servants all exclaim 'Ach!' and a variety of other splendid
designs, which we decline to enumerate. Suffice it to say that they all
draw forth the approving commendations of the spectators, from Mr
Prothero, master, to Tom, serving-lad.

When the peep-show has been duly exhibited, Netta again demands her
brother's history, and a particular account of how he procured the show.

'Oh! there is not much to tell,' says Owen, 'and I won't tell that
unless father promises to keep his lecture till to-morrow. I hate a
sermon late at night, but don't so much mind it in the morning. Don't
look so serious, mother; I don't mean a clerical preachment. Do you
promise, father?'

'Well, there, as you like,' said Mr Prothero, laughing? 'but I wish you
hadn't made me break my shin.'

'Here'