to discover the object of my search.  So you perceive,” continued Tim, laughing, “that we must arrange so as to suit the views of both without parting company.  Do you hunt among bag-wigs, amber-headed canes, silks and satins—­I will burrow among tags and tassels, dimity and mob caps; and probably we shall both succeed in the object of our search.  I leave you to hunt in the drawing-rooms, while I ferret in the kitchen.  You may throw yourself on a sofa and exclaim—­’Who is my father?’ while I will sit in the cook’s lap, and ask her if she may happen to be my mother.”

This sally of Timothy’s made even Fleta laugh; and after a little more remonstrance, I consented that he should perform the part of my valet.  Indeed, the more I reflected upon it, the greater appeared the advantages which might accrue from the arrangement.  By the time that this point had been settled, we had arrived at the town to which we directed our steps, and took up our quarters at an inn of moderate pretensions, but of very great external cleanliness.  My first object was to find out some fitting asylum for little Fleta.  The landlady was a buxom, good-tempered young woman, and I gave the little girl into her charge, while Timothy and I went out on a survey.  I had made up my mind to put her to some good, but not very expensive, school, if such were to be found in the vicinity.  I should have preferred taking her with me to London, but I was aware how much more expensive it would be to provide for her there; and as the distance from the metropolis was but twenty miles, I could easily run down to see her occasionally.  I desired the little girl to call me her brother, as such I intended to be to her in future, and not to answer every question they might put to her.  There was, however, little occasion for this caution; for Fleta was, as I before observed, very unlike children in general.  I then went out with Timothy to look for a tailor, that I might order our clothes, as what we had on were not either of the very best taste, or in the very best condition.  We walked up the main street, and soon fell in with a tailor’s shop, over which was written in large letters—­“Feodor Shneider, Tailor to his Royal Highness the Prince of Darmstadt.”

“Will that do, Japhet?” said Timothy, pointing to the announcement.

“Why yes,” replied I; “but how the deuce the Prince of Darmstadt should have employed a man in a small country town as his tailor, is to me rather a puzzle.”

“Perhaps he made his clothes when he was in Germany,” replied Tim.

“Perhaps he did; but, however, he shall have the honour of making mine.”