for tea—­not like Cowfold, eh?  You’ll see life here—­life, my boy;” and Mr. Dabb, full of ham, buttered toast, and hot coffee, and feeling very well that morning, began to chop with great vigour at the spine of a dead pig suspended by its hind-legs.  “Life,” he said again—­“there isn’t such a place in London for life as the Borough; and though I say it, there aren’t many more places in the Borough where there’s more life than at Dabb’s.  Now then, mount.”

Andrew assumed his new position.  Fortunately for him, he was, like many other youths of his bent, rather quick at arithmetic; Mr. Dabb was not very busy, and whatever his faults may have been, was by no means disposed to be hard upon a beginner.  Still the day was insufferably long, and he rejoiced with a foolish extravagance of delight when the hour came for going home.  There was nothing exhilarating in the streets through which he raced:  there was no certainty of anything particularly pleasant in Nelson Square, and the morrow would inevitably be as to-day.  But still he was glad; and as for the morrow, he did not see it.

At three o’clock Miriam called on her aunt.  As she passed through the shop she saw her brother, but it was full of people, and she could not speak to him.  She found Mrs. Babb still in bed with her nerves in disorder; other things were in disorder too, and Miriam particularly wondered at the dishevelled condition of Mrs. Dabb’s hair, nightcaps being the custom at Cowfold for all people who were not girls nor boys.  Miriam was not an orderly person, as we know, but Mrs. Dabb’s room was a surprise to her.  In one corner was an old green sofa, on which clothes were thrown; on the top of the clothes was a tray with some half-eaten bread and butter, a piece of bacon, and some tea things—­we will not, however, go any further.

“I am glad you’ve come, my dear,” said Mrs. Dabb, “although I am afraid I shall not be able to see you so often as I could wish, for my health is not good, and when I am better there is so much to be done.”

Miriam thought that if this might be true, there was no reason to put it in the forefront of the reception.

“Your brother, I believe, will do very well.  It must be a great relief to him to be freed from his mechanical labours in a provincial town, and to find himself in a more extended circle.”

Miriam thanked her aunt, and said that she was sure her uncle would be kind.

“Yes, he will be kind; although I should not say that kindness is the one thing prominent in him.  In such large commercial undertakings the feelings are not developed.  I am often sensible of it.  There is no response in your uncle to what is best in me, yet I must not complain.  Perhaps if we had children it might have been different, and yet who knows?  Maternal solicitude might have destroyed the sentiment I now possess.  But I must not weary myself by talking—­I must bid you good-bye.  Come again soon.”