rs of the cloth-factory at Chatteris,
and with the Independent preacher there, all of whom he met at Clavering
Athenaeum, which the Liberal party had set up in accordance with
the advanced spirit of the age, and perhaps in opposition to the
aristocratic old reading-room, into which the Edinburgh Review had
once scarcely got an admission, and where no tradesmen were allowed an
entrance. He propitiated the younger partner of the cloth-factory, by
asking him to dine in a friendly way at the Park; he complimented the
Honourable Mrs. Simcoe with hares and partridges from the same quarter,
and a request to read her husband's last sermon; and being a little
unwell one day, the rascal took advantage of the circumstance to show
his tongue to Mr. Huxter, who sent him medicines and called the next
morning. How delighted old Pendennis would have been with his pupil!
Pen himself was amused with the sport in which he was engaged, and his
success inspired him with a wicked good-humour.

And yet, as he walked out of Clavering of a night, after "presiding"
at a meeting of the Athenaeum, or working through an evening with
Mrs. Simcoe, who, with her husband, was awed by the young Londoner's
reputation, and had heard of his social successes; as he passed over the
old familiar bridge of the rushing Brawl, and heard that well-remembered
sound of waters beneath, and saw his own cottage of Fairoaks among the
trees, their darkling outlines clear against the starlit sky, different
thoughts no doubt came to the young man's mind, and awakened pangs of
grief and shame there. There still used to be a light in the windows of
the room which he remembered so well, and in which the Saint who loved
him had passed so many hours of care and yearning and prayer. He turned
away his gaze from the faint light which seemed to pursue him with its
wan reproachful gaze, as though it was his mother's spirit watching
and warning. How clear the night was! How keen the stars shone! how
ceaseless the rush of the flowing waters! the old home trees whispered,
and waved gently their dark heads and branches over the cottage roof.
Yonder, in the faint starlight glimmer, was the terrace where, as a boy,
he walked of summer evenings, ardent and trustful, unspotted, untried,
ignorant of doubts or passions; sheltered as yet from the world's
contamination in the pure and anxious bosom of love. The clock of
the near town tolling midnight, with a clang, disturbs our wanderer's
rev