“Alas!” replied the lad, with ready presence of mind, “but I have only just paid all my gold into my bank for the day!”

“No matter,” said the Bishop, gently.  “I find I have a threepenny bit, after all.  It is yours!” And the good ecclesiastic, as if to avoid thanks, moved nimbly off, though his eyes still sought the shop-windows as he passed, with even greater complacency than before.

BEN tested the threepenny bit between his teeth—­it was a spurious coin; he looked up, but his late customer was already passed out of hearing of his sentiments.  He sank down with his head laid amongst his pots and brushes.  “Bilked!” he moaned piteously, “bilked—­and by a blooming Bishop!”

CHAPTER IV.

But mark the sequel.  The good Bishop had been quite ignorant that the threepenny bit was a pewter one; quite sincere, for the time, in his determination to subdue his own weakness.  Still it was not to be:  inbred pride is not so easily vanquished—­even by Bishops!  The Bishop learned to glory in his blacking far more than he had ever done in the original mahogany.  He had it continually renewed, and with the most expensive compositions.  He would bend enraptured over the burnished surfaces of his extended legs, gazing, like another Narcissus, at the features he saw so faithfully repeated.

Meanwhile the threepence, base as it was, became the humble instrument of brighter fortunes to BRUSTLES; it showed a marvellous aptitude for turning up tails, which BEN no sooner perceived than he availed himself of a blessing that had, indeed, come to him in disguise!

But the Bishop—­what of him?  Nemesis overtook him at last.  The discontent long smouldering in his diocese broke out into a climax.  Thousands of Curates, inflamed by professional agitators, went out on strike, and their first victim was the Bishop of TIMBERTOWS, who was discovered prostrate one dark night by his horrified Chaplain.  He had been picketed as a Blackleg!

THE END.

    (Copies of the above may be obtained for distribution, at
    very reasonable terms, on application to the Author.)

* * * * *

PLAYTIME FOR A DOLL’S HOUSE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—­According to a well-known Critic, writing of a morning performance of The Doll’s House on Tuesday, the 27th ult., at Terry’s Theatre, “There is no need to discuss IBSEN’s piece any more.”  I will go a little further, and say, not only should the play be spared discussion, but also performance.  All that could be done for this miserable drama (if a work utterly devoid of dramatic interest can be so entitled) was effected some years since, when Breaking a Butterfly, a version with Messrs. HERMAN and JONES as adapters, was played at the Prince’s (now Prince of Wales’s) Theatre.  I believe some one or other has said that that version was misleading,