that his alpaca nephew was not there.  Finding an antique flask in one of his pockets, he gradually removed all the liquid contents therefrom with a tubular straw, but still could discern no traces of Edwin DROOD.  All the live-long day he prosecuted his researches, to the great discomposure of the populace:  and, with whitewash all over the back of his coat, and very dingy hands, had just seated himself at his own fireside in the evening, when Mr. Dibble came in.

“This is a strange disappearance,” said Mr. Dibble.

“And it was good as new,” groaned the organist, with but one eye open.

“Almost new!—­what was?”

“Th’umbrella.”

“Mr. Bumstead,” returned the old man, coldly, “I am not talking of an umbrella, but of Mr. Edwin.”

“Yesh, I know,” said the uncle.  “Awright.  I’m li’lle sleepy; tha’sall.”

“I’ve just seen my ward, Mr. Bumstead.”

“’She puerwell, shir?”

“She is not pretty well.  Nor is Miss pendragon.”

“I’m vahr’ sorry,” said Mr. Bumstead, just audibly.

“Miss pendragon scorns the thought of any blame for her brother,” continued Mr. Dibble, eyeing the fire.

“It had a bun-bone handle,” muttered the other, dreamily.  Then, with a momentary brightening—­“’scuse me, shir:  whah’ll y’take?”

“Nothing, sir!” was the sharp response.  “I’m not at all thirsty.  But there is something more to tell you.  At the last meeting of my ward and your nephew—­just before your dinner here,—­they concluded to break their engagement of marriage, for certain good reasons, and thenceforth be only brother and sister to each other.”

Starting forward in his chair, with partially opened eyes, the white-washed and dingy Mr. Bumstead managed to get off his hat, covering himself with a bandanna handkerchief and innumerable old pieces of paper and cloth, as he did so, from head to foot; made a feeble effort to throw it at the aged lawyer; and then, chair and all, tumbled forward with a crash to the rug, where he lay in a refreshing sleep.

(To be Continued.)

* * * * *

Chincapin at long Branch.

A Quaker friend of mine once observed that he loved the Ocean for its Broad Brim.  So do I, but not for that alone.  I am partial to it on account of the somewhat extensive facilities it affords for Sea Bathing.  Learning to swim, by the way, was my principal Elementary study.  I have just returned from taking a plunge in company with many other distinguished persons.  How it cools one to rush into the “Boiling Surf.”  How refreshing to dive Below the Billow.  I don’t think I could ever have a Surfeit of the Surf, I am so fond of it.  Oh! the Sea! the Sea! with its darkly, deeply cerulean—­but stop!  I am getting out of my depth.  Would that I were a poet, that I—­But I ain’t, so what’s the use?