said I to my man, “why were you not at home last night?”—­“I had to wait, sir, nearly three hours,” he replied, “for an answer to the letter which you sent to Major Sheringham.”—­“That is not true,” said I; and, to my infinite surprise, I appeared to recollect a series of occurrences, of which I never had previously heard, and could have known nothing:  “you went to see your sweetheart, Betsy Collyer, at Camberwell, and took her to a tea-garden, and gave her cakes and cider, and saw her home again:  you mean to do exactly the same thing on Sunday, and to-morrow you mean to ask me for your quarter’s wages, although not due till Monday, in order to buy her a new shawl.”—­The man stood aghast:  it was all true.  I was quite as much surprised as the man.—­“Sir,” said Barton, who had served me for seven years without having once been found fault with, “I see you think me unworthy your confidence; you could not have known this, if you had not watched, and followed, and overheard me and my sweetheart; my character will get me through the world without being looked after.  I can stay with you no longer; you will please, sir, to provide yourself with another servant.”—­“But Barton,” said I, “I did not follow or watch you; I—­“—­“I beg your pardon, sir,” he replied; “it is not for me to contradict; but you’ll forgive me, sir, I would rather go; I must go.”

At this moment I was on the very point of easing his mind, and retaining my faithful servant by a disclosure of my power; but it was yet too new to be parted with; so I affected an anger I did not feel, and told him he might go where he pleased.  I had, however, ascertained that the old gentleman had not deceived me in his promises; and, elated with the possession of my extraordinary faculty, I hurried the operation of dressing, and before I had concluded it, my ardent friend Sheringham was announced; he was waiting in the breakfast-room.  At the same moment, a note from the lovely Fanny Haywood was delivered to me—­from the divine girl who, in the midst of all my scientific abstraction, could “chain my worldly feelings for a moment.”  “Sheringham, my dear fellow,” said I, as I advanced to welcome him, “what makes you so early a visiter this morning?”—­“An anxiety,” replied Sheringham, “to tell you that my uncle, whose interest I endeavoured to procure for you, in regard to the appointment for which you expressed a desire, has been compelled to recommend a relation of the marquess; this gives me real pain, but I thought it would be best to put you out of suspense as soon as possible.”—­“Major Sheringham,” said I, drawing myself up coldly, “if this matter concerns you so deeply as you seem to imply that it does, might I ask why you so readily agreed to your uncle’s proposition or chimed in with his suggestion, to bestow the appointment on this relation of the marquess, in order that you might, in return for it, obtain the promotion for which you are so anxious?”—­“My