any physical inconveniences from my misfortune, save in one particular—­that it has rendered the assumption of gaiters unhappily out of the question!  But, possibly, my wish to have these legs of mine disguised by your pigments, strikes you as bizarre, if not positively eccentric?  You will better understand my reasons after you have heard a confession which, though necessary, is, believe me, painful to make.”  And the good old man, after a short internal struggle, began the following narrative, which we reserve for a succeeding chapter.

CHAPTER II.

“Even as a Curate, a certain harmless vanity was ever my besetting weakness.  I might, indeed, have hoped that, after my accident—­but see, my good lad, how pride may lurk, even in our very infirmities!  These artificial limbs have become a yet subtler snare to me than even those they replaced.  I had them constructed, as you see, of the best mahogany—­to match the furniture in my dining-room.  With ever-increasing pleasure, my eyes have gloried in their grain and gloss, in the symmetry of their curves, in the more than Chinese delicacy of their extremities, until gradually they have trampled upon my better self, they have run away with all my possibilities of moral usefulness!  Yes, but this very moment, as I stood admiring their contour at yonder window, the pernicious thought crossed my mind that their appearance would be yet more enhanced if I had them gilded!”

“But, your reverent Lordship,” objected BRUSTLES, as the Bishop paused, overcome by humiliation, “it’s no use coming to me for that ’ere job!” For, though but a poor boy, he was too honest to accept any commission under false pretences.  Gilding, he knew, might—­and, in a London atmosphere, soon would—­become black, but no boot-polish would ever assume the appearance, even of the blackest gilt, and so he candidly explained to the Bishop.

“I know, my boy,” said the latter, patting BEN’s head kindly with the handle of his umbrella, “I know.  Hence my application to your skill.  That presumptuous idea revealed as in a lightning flash the abyss on the brink of which I stood.  This demon of perverse pride must be laid; humbled for ever.  So ply your brushes, and see you spare not the blacking!”

CHAPTER III.

BRUSTLES obeyed—­not without awe, and in a short space of time two pots of blacking were exhausted, and the roseate glow of the Bishop’s mahogany limbs was for ever hidden under a layer of more than Nubian ebony!

“’Selp me, your lordly reverence,” he cried, dazzled by the brilliancy of the result; “but you might be took, below, for a Lifeguardsman!”

[Illustration:  Bilked by a Bishop.]

“Hush,” said the Bishop, though with a gratification he could not restrain, “would you recall the demon I strove to exorcise!  It is true that the change is less of a disfigurement than I feared—­ahem, hoped—­but after all, may not the wish to please the eye of man be excusable?  You shall receive a rich reward.  Do you happen to have such a thing as change for a five-pound note about you?”