ur lemons be forwarded to his residence. Have they any
good Canton-flannel, suitable for a person of medium complexion?--
No?--Very well, then: send half a pound of cloves to his house before
night.

There are Ritualistic services at Saint Cow's, and he renders the
organ-accompaniments with such unusual freedom from reminiscences of the
bacchanalian repertory, that the Gospeler is impelled to compliment him
as they leave the cathedral.

"You're in fine tone to-day, BUMSTEAD. Not quite so much volume to your
playing as sometimes, but still the tune could be recognized."

"That, sir," answers the organist, explainingly, "was because I held my
right wrist firmly with my left hand, and played mostly with only one
finger. The method, I find, secures steadiness of touch and precision in
hitting the right key."

"I should think it would, Mr. BUMSTEAD. You seem to be more free than
ordinarily from your occasional indisposition."

"I am less nervous, Mr. SIMPSON," is the reply. "I've made up my mind to
swear off, sir.--I'll tell you what I'll do, SIMPSON," continues the
Ritualistic organist, with sudden confidential affability. "I'll make an
agreement with you, that whichever of us catches the other slipping-up
first in the New Year, shall be entitled to call for whatever he wants."

"Bless me! I don't understand," ejaculates the Gospeler.

"No matter, sir. No matter!" retorts the mystic of the organ-loft,
abruptly returning to his original gloom. "My company awaits me, and I
must go."

"Excuse me," cries the Gospeler, turning back a moment; "but what's the
matter with your coat?"

The other discovers the condition of his tucked-up coat-tail with some
fierceness of aspect, but immediately explains that it must have been
caused by his sitting upon a folding-chair just before leaving home.

So, humming a savage tune in make-belief of no embarrassment at all in
regard to his recently disordered garment, Mr. BUMSTEAD reaches his
boarding-house. At the door he waits long enough to examine his
umbrella, with scowling scrutiny, in every rib; and then _he_ enters.

Behind the red window-curtain of the room of the dinner-party shines the
light all night, while before it a wailing December gale rises higher
and higher. Through leafless branches, under eaves and against chimneys,
the savage wings of the storm are beaten, its long fingers caught, and
its giant shoulder heaved. Still, while nothing else seems steady, that
light