The next morning, the sun seemed to have made a successful struggle with the dense London atmosphere, and shone full in Mr. Vanderclump’s face while he was at breakfast, and set a piping bullfinch singing a tune, which his master loved rather for the sake of old associations, than from any delight in music.  Then Lloyd’s List was full of arrivals, and the Price Current had that morning some unusual charm about it, which I cannot even guess at.  Mr. Vanderclump looked upon the bright and blazing fire; his eye rested, with a calm and musing satisfaction, on the light volumes of steam rising from the spout of the tea-kettle, as it stood, rather murmuring drowsily, than hissing, upon the hob.  There was, he might have felt, a sympathy between them.  They were both placidly puffing out the warm and wreathing smoke.

He laid down his pipe, and took half a well-buttered muffin into his capacious mouth at a bite; he washed the mouthful down, with a large dish of tea, and he felt in better spirits.  That morning he entered the counting-house rubbing his hands.

Within an hour a crowd of huge, dusky clouds shut out the merry sunshine, and the Hamburgh mail brought no tidings whatever of Mr. Peter.  Mr. Anthony worked himself up into a thorough ill-humour again, and swore at his clerks, because they asked him questions.  When he entered his apartment that evening he felt more desolate than ever.  Betty placed a barrel of oysters on the table—­he heeded her not;—­a large German sausage—­his eyes were fixed on the ground;—­a piece of Hamburgh beef —­Mr. Vanderclump looked up for an instant, and, Europa-like, his thoughts crossed the sea, upon that beef, to Hamburgh.  Gradually, however, a genial warmth spread throughout the room, for Betty stirred up the fire, and let down the curtains, and snuffed the dim candles; while Molly loaded the table with bottles of divers shapes and sizes, a basin of snow-white sugar, and a little basket of limes, of well-known and exquisite flavour; placing, at the same time, a very small kettle of boiling water on the fire.—­“Why, Mollee! my goot girl!” said Mr. Vanderclump, in a low and somewhat melancholy tone, (his eyes had mechanically followed these latter proceedings,) “Mollee! that is ponch!” —­“La, sir! and why not?” replied the damsel, almost playfully.  “Why not be comfortable and cheery?  I am sure”—­and here she meant to look encouraging, her usual simper spreading to a smile—­“I am sure Betty and I would do our best to make you so.”

“Goot girls, goot girls!” said Mr. Vanderclump, his eyes fixed all the while upon the supper-table—­he sat down to it.  “My goot girls!” said he, soon after, “you may go down; I do not want you; you need not wait.”  The two timid, gentle creatures instantly obeyed.  More than an hour elapsed, and then Mr. Vanderclump’s bell rang.  The two matronly maidens were very busily employed in making a new cap.  Betty rose at once; but suddenly recollecting that she had been trying