whose own it is by rights, I could not tell you who the half of it belonged to, if I would.  It’s the savings of an industrious life, lad,” added Mr. Balfour, pathetically; “and I should be sorry to think, if any thing happened to me, that it should lie there useless, or be found accidental like, and perhaps fall into the hands of the bluebottles.  Your memory’s good, my lad, I dare say, and you won’t forget the number nor the street.”

“My memory is very good, friend,” returned Richard, slowly; “and I have only two or three things else to keep in it.  And you, on your part, you will not forget the mine?”

“Nay, nay; I’ve got it safe:  Wheal Danes, Wheal Danes.”

“Silence, down there!” roared the warder; and nothing but the squeak of the barrow-wheel and the clean slice of the spade was heard in all that throng of involuntary toilers.

CHAPTER XXXV.

BASIL.

It is nineteen years since Richard Yorke stood in the dock at Cross Key and heard the words of doom.  Almost a whole generation of his fellow-creatures has passed away from the earth.  Old men have died, young men have become old, and babes have grown to be young men.  There are but some half dozen persons in the world who, if reminded of him by some circumstance, can recollect him dimly.  There are two who still keep him in their thoughts continually, just as he was—­like a picture which bears no longer any resemblance to its original—­and even these never breathe his name.

Here is a young fellow walking with his mother along Oxford Street who is not unlike him, who might be himself but for those nineteen years; and the girl that walks upon the other side of him might also be Harry Trevethick.  Youth and beauty are not dead because Richard Yorke is dead, or as good as dead.  The name of this girl is Agnes Aird, a painter’s daughter, who is also a teacher of his art.  The lad is her father’s pupil, and has learned beneath his roof a lesson not included in the artistic course; you may know that by the way in which his eyes devour the girl, the intonation of his voice when he addresses her, the silent pressure of the arm on which her fingers rest.  Charles Coe is in love with Agnes, and in all his studies of perspective beholds her, a radiant figure beckoning him on to a happy future.  His pencil strays from its object to portray her features—­to inscribe her name beside his own.  Mr. Coe, his father, exceedingly disapproves of this projected alliance, and has forbidden the young people to associate.  This ukase, however, can scarcely be obeyed while the whole party are inmates of Mr. Aird’s residence, who “lets off” the upper part of his house as furnished apartments, which the Coes have now inhabited as lodgers for some weeks.  Solomon (now a very well-to-do personage, and a great authority on metalliferous soils) has come to town on business, and left to his wife the choice of a residence; and she, to please