who had a fancy
to look at my roses. I took the liberty to bring him in, for I thought
none of the lodgers would object."

"Speaking for myself," replied the Reverend Mr. Rolles, "I do not; nor
do I fancy any of the rest of us would be more difficult upon so small a
matter. The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must none of us forget
that; and because you give us liberty to walk there we should be indeed
ungracious if we so far presumed upon your politeness as to interfere
with the convenience of your friends. But, on second thoughts," he
added, "I believe that this gentleman and I have met before. Mr.
Hartley, I think. I regret to observe that you have had a fall."

And he offered his hand.

A sort of maiden dignity, and a desire to delay as long as possible the
necessity for explanation, moved Harry to refuse this chance of help,
and to deny his own identity. He chose the tender mercies of the
gardener, who was at least unknown to him, rather than the curiosity and
perhaps the doubts of an acquaintance.

"I fear there is some mistake," said he. "My name is Thomlinson and I am
a friend of Mr. Raeburn's."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Rolles. "The likeness is amazing."

Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout this colloquy, now felt
it high time to bring it to a period.

"I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir," said he.

And with that he dragged Harry after him into the house, and then into a
chamber on the garden. His first care was to draw down the blind, for
Mr. Rolles still remained where they had left him, in an attitude of
perplexity and thought. Then he emptied the broken bandbox on the table,
and stood before the treasure, thus fully displayed, with an expression
of rapturous greed, and rubbing his hands upon his thighs. For Harry,
the sight of the man's face under the influence of this base emotion
added another pang to those he was already suffering. It seemed
incredible that, from his life of pure and delicate trifling, he should
be plunged in a breath among sordid and criminal relations. He could
reproach his conscience with no sinful act; and yet he was now suffering
the punishment of sin in its most acute and cruel forms--the dread of
punishment, the suspicions of the good, and the companionship and
contamination of vile and brutal natures. He felt he could lay his life
down with gladness to escape from the room and the society of Mr.
Raeburn.

"And now," said the latter, after he had separated t