nearest surviving relatives, Mrs. Softly, and Mr. and Mrs. Batterbury, of Duskydale Park, were summoned.  At the time of their arrival her ladyship’s condition was comatose, her breathing being highly stertorous.  If we are rightly informed, Doctor Softly and the other medical gentlemen present gave it as their opinion that if the pulse of the venerable sufferer did not rally in the course of a quarter of an hour at most, very lamentable results might be anticipated.  For fourteen minutes, as our reporter was informed, no change took place; but, strange to relate, immediately afterward her ladyship’s pulse rallied suddenly in the most extraordinary manner.  She was observed to open her eyes very wide, and was heard, to the surprise and delight of all surrounding the couch, to ask why her ladyship’s usual lunch of chicken-broth with a glass of Amontillado sherry was not placed on the table as usual.  These refreshments having been produced, under the sanction of the medical gentlemen, the aged patient partook of them with an appearance of the utmost relish.  Since this happy alteration for the better, her ladyship’s health has, we rejoice to say, rapidly improved; and the answer now given to all friendly and fashionable inquirers is, in the venerable lady’s own humorous phraseology, ‘Much better than could be expected.’”

Well done, my excellent grandmother! my firm, my unwearied, my undying friend!  Never can I say that my case is desperate while you can swallow your chicken-broth and sip your Amontillado sherry.  The moment I want money, I will write to Mr. Batterbury, and cut another little golden slice out of that possible three-thousand-pound-cake, for which he has already suffered and sacrificed so much.  In the meantime, O venerable protectress of the wandering Rogue! let me gratefully drink your health in the nastiest and smallest half-pint of sherry this palate ever tasted, or these eyes ever beheld!

I went to bed that night in great spirits.  My luck seemed to be returning to me; and I began to feel more than hopeful of really discovering my beloved Alicia at Crickgelly, under the alias of Miss Giles.

The next morning the Rev. John Jones descended to breakfast so rosy, bland, and smiling, that the chambermaids simpered as he tripped by them in the passage, and the landlady bowed graciously as he passed her parlor door.  The coach drove up, and the reverend gentleman (after waiting characteristically for the woman’s ladder) mounted to his place on the roof, behind the coachman.  One man sat there who had got up before him—­and who should that man be, but the chief of the Bow Street runners, who had rashly tried to take Doctor Dulcifer into custody!

There could not be the least doubt of his identity; I should have known his face again among a hundred.  He looked at me as I took my place by his side, with one sharp searching glance—­then turned his head away toward the road.  Knowing that he had never set eyes on my face (thanks to the convenient peephole at the red-brick house), I thought my meeting with him was likely to be rather advantageous than otherwise.  I had now an opportunity of watching the proceedings of one of our pursuers, at any rate—­and surely this was something gained.