What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber, and people, unaccustomed to it, enter, and treading softly, but heavily, carry a weight into the bedroom, and lay it down. There is whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, "If he could only tell what he saw!" But, a little after the coming of the day, come people to clean the rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not expressed be- He is pointing at a table, with a bottle (nearly fore, or the foremost of them goes wild; for, look-full of wine) and a glass upon it, and two candles ing up at his outstretched hand, and looking down at what is below it, that person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street. that were blown out suddenly, soon after being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair, and at a stain upon the ground before it, that might be almost covered with a hand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excited imag It is the old girl's birth-day; and that is the greatest holiday and reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event is always commemorated according to certain forms, settled and prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet being deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in by the vendor, and installed in the possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, re ination might suppose that there was something | ality on that particular birth-day, and not a gein them so terrific, as to drive the rest of the com- neric solemnity. position, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too-in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has-stark mad. It happens surely that every one that comes into the darkened room and looks at these things, looks up at the Roman, and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralyzed dumb witness. So, it shall happen surely through many years to come, that ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be covered, so hard to be got out; and that the Roman, pointing from the ceiling, shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore; and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointed helplessly at him from night to morn-plying Fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces his ing, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart. CHAPTER XLIX.-DUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP. A GREAT annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr. Joseph Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitæ, ex-artilleryman and present bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration of a birth-day in the family. It is not Mr. Bagnet's birth-day. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that epoch in the musical instrument business, by kissing the children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after dinner, and wondering toward evening what his poor old mother is thinking about it—a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferred all their stock of filial affection into their mother's name. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl, causes him usually to make the noun-substantive, Goodness, of the feminine gender. Mr. bundle from a place of concealment, amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do nothing all day long, but sit in her very best gown, and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part; but she keeps her state with all imaginable cheerfulness. On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry which, if there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff, to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by their unlooked-for production: he is himself directing the roasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of ceremony, an honored guest. Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich serving, as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they make mistakes. "At half-after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be done." Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a stand-still before the fire, and beginning to burn. "You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "fit for a queen." It is not the birth-day of one of the three children. Those occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the bounds of Happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich's last birth-day, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing upon his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a momet of profound reflection on the changes wrought by Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, time, to examine him in the catechism; accom- but to the perception of her son betrays so much plishing with extreme accuracy the questions uneasiness of spirit, that he is impelled by the number one and two, What is your name? and dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, Who gave you that name? but there failing in what is the matter ?-thus standing with his eyes the exact precision of his memory, and substitu- wide open, more oblivious of the fowls than beting for number three, the question-And how fore, and not affording the least hope of a return do you like that name? which he propounded to consciousness. Fortunately, his elder sister with a sense of its importance, in itself so edify-perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Baging and improving, as to give it quite the air of net's breast, and with an admonitory poke recalls a Fortieth Article. This, however, was a speci- him. The stopped fowls going round again. Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes, in the intensity of the earth. Their legs are so hard, as to encourher relief. "George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half-after four. To the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This afternoon. age the idea that they must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian exercises, and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old girl would not cause him a mo "Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs. Bag-ment's disappointment on any day, least of all net laughing, and shaking her head. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Never mind. You'd be as young as ever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As every body knows." Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it will be. "Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head; "I begin to think George is in the roving way again." "George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his old comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it." "Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free, or he wouldn't be George; but he smarts, and seems put out." "He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would put the devil out." "There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is, Lignum." Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry humor of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made-gravy acquiring no flavor, and turning out of a flaxen complexion. With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process of pealing, upheaving from their centres in every direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last dishes, and they sit down at table; Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's place at his right hand. It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that it is in the nature of poultry to possess, is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to understand. The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the repast, in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the back yard. The great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of their mother, and skating in and out on little scaffolds or pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to a confusion of tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess; while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon, with the calmness proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink, are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment. When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet announces, "George! Military time!" It is George; and he has hearty congratula tions for the old girl (whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George. "But, George, old man!" says Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously. "What's come to you?" "Come to me?" "Ah! you are so white, George-for you-and look so shocked. Now don't he, Lignum ?" "George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl what's the matter." "I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over." "Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet, with a mother's pity. "Is he gone? Dear, dear!" "I didn't mean to say any thing about it, for it's not birthday talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak more gayly, "but you're so quick, | out to him; "and though I have been a crossMrs. Bagnet.' "You're right! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As powder." "And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake. That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet." Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of reverential admiration by Mrs. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Tell him my opinion of it." "Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the beautifullest thing that ever was seen!" "Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion." "It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides, and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for me." "Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion." "But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and her hand stretched grained soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will, George." The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young Woolwich's head to see it done, with an interest so maturely wooden,, yet so pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet can not help laughing in her airy way, and saying, "O Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops, and looking round. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!" Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe; and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place, and the pipes to be got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and the two together must do it." "You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very well, Mrs. Bagnet. 'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues | of a second-hand wiolinceller, of a good tonehave got to be too many for me. Here was this and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I poor lad. 'Twas dull work to see him dying as thought it was you in the corner; I thought I he did, and not be able to help him." couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with "What do you mean, George? You did help you, George, at the present moment? Pretty him. You took him under your roof." "I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped out of that." “Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet. "Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind. His was a bad case, too. Then the two got mixed up i. a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking every thing so easy-it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you." "My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe, and tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the health altogether." smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with your governor? And Lord!" says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's children, too! You may do any thing with me, if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who your father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!" Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George, and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr. Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight and ten." "You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet. "You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll my soul, she comes near it! do it!" So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health; always given by himself, on these occasions, in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following terins: "George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birth-day. Take a day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!" The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model composition is limited to the three words, "And wishing yours!" which the old girl follows up with a nod at every body in succession, and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a man!" Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlor door. He is a sharp-eyed man—a quick, keen man and he takes in every body's look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man. "George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?" "Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George. "Yes," says the man, coming in. "I was going down the street here, when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop window-a friend of mine is in wants VOL. VII.-No. 37.-H "I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one mother, and she's sti. as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much so as yourself, but, upon And what do you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's cheek. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?" These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and glass for Mr. Bucket, and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits. "Not in his usual spirits ?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for? You haven't got any thing on your mind, you know." "Nothing particular," returns the trooper. "I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket "What could you have on your mind, you know! And have these pets got any thing on their minds, eh? Not they; but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make them precious low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am." Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own. There, ma'am !" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I haven't. My wife, and a lodger, constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as fond of children as myself, and as wishful to have 'em; but no. So it is. Worldly goods are di |