bscurities of
the concrete--eh, Queeker? Come, give us a song, like a good fellow."

"I never sing--I _cannot_ sing, sir," said the youth, hurriedly.

"No! why, I thought Katie said you were attending the singing-class."

The fat cousin was observed here to put her handkerchief to her mouth
and bend convulsively over a drawing.

Queeker explained that he had just begun to attend, but had not yet
attained sufficient confidence to sing in public. Then, starting up he
suddenly pulled out his watch, exclaimed that he was quite ashamed of
having remained so late, shook hands nervously all round, and, rushing
from the house, left Stanley Hall in possession of the field!

Now, the poor youth's state of mind is not easily accounted for.
Stanley, being a close observer, had at an early part of the evening
detected the cause of Queeker's jealousy, and, being a kindly fellow,
sought, by devoting himself to Fanny Hennings, to relieve his young
friend; but, strange to say, Queeker was _not_ relieved! This fact was
a matter of profound astonishment even to Queeker himself, who went home
that night in a state of mind which cannot be adequately described, sat
down before his desk, and, with his head buried in his hands, thought
intensely.

"Can it be," he murmured in a sepulchral voice, looking up with an
expression of horror, "that I love them _both_? Impossible. Horrible!
Perish the thought--yes." Seizing a pen:--

"Perish the thought
Which never ought
To be,
Let not the thing."

"Thing--wing--bing--ping--jing--ring--ling--ting--cling--dear me! what a
lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English
language!--what _will_ rhyme with--ah! I have it--sting--"

"Let not the thing
Reveal its sting
To me!"

Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh--cast one long
lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE SLOOP NORA--MR. JONES BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE, AND BILLY TOWLER, FOR
THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, THOUGHTFUL.

A dead calm, with a soft, golden, half-transparent mist, had settled
down on Old Father Thames, when, early one morning, the sloop Nora
floated rather than sailed towards the mouth of that celebrated river,
bent, in the absence of wind, on creeping out to sea with the tide.

Jim Welton stood at the helm, which, in the circumstances, required only
attention from one of his legs, so that his hands rested idly in his
coat pockets. Morley J