Yes, over that brow uneasiness gathered like the sable wing of the fabled bird, as—­as no doubt will be easily identified by all right-minded individuals.  If not, I am unable, on the spur of the moment, to enter into particulars of him.  The reflection that the writings must now inevitably get into print, and that He might yet live and meet with them, sat like the Hag of Night upon my jaded form.  The elasticity of my spirits departed.  Fruitless was the Bottle, whether Wine or Medicine.  I had recourse to both, and the effect of both upon my system was witheringly lowering.

In this state of depression, into which I subsided when I first began to revolve what could I ever say if He—­the unknown—­was to appear in the Coffee-room and demand reparation, I one forenoon in this last November received a turn that appeared to be given me by the finger of Fate and Conscience, hand in hand.  I was alone in the Coffee-room, and had just poked the fire into a blaze, and was standing with my back to it, trying whether heat would penetrate with soothing influence to the Voice within, when a young man in a cap, of an intelligent countenance, though requiring his hair cut, stood before me.

“Mr. Christopher, the Head Waiter?”

“The same.”

The young man shook his hair out of his vision,—­which it impeded,—­to a packet from his breast, and handing it over to me, said, with his eye (or did I dream?) fixed with a lambent meaning on me, “THE PROOFS.”

Although I smelt my coat-tails singeing at the fire, I had not the power to withdraw them.  The young man put the packet in my faltering grasp, and repeated,—­let me do him the justice to add, with civility: 

“THE PROOFS.  A. Y. R.”

With those words he departed.

A. Y. R.?  And You Remember.  Was that his meaning?  At Your Risk.  Were the letters short for that reminder?  Anticipate Your Retribution.  Did they stand for that warning?  Out-dacious Youth Repent?  But no; for that, a O was happily wanting, and the vowel here was a A.

I opened the packet, and found that its contents were the foregoing writings printed just as the reader (may I add the discerning reader?) peruses them.  In vain was the reassuring whisper,—­A.Y.R., All the Year Round,—­it could not cancel the Proofs.  Too appropriate name.  The Proofs of my having sold the Writings.

My wretchedness daily increased.  I had not thought of the risk I ran, and the defying publicity I put my head into, until all was done, and all was in print.  Give up the money to be off the bargain and prevent the publication, I could not.  My family was down in the world, Christmas was coming on, a brother in the hospital and a sister in the rheumatics could not be entirely neglected.  And it was not only ins in the family that had told on the resources of one unaided Waitering; outs were not wanting.  A brother out of a situation, and another brother