“Sam, hold; if it be associated with human frailty, it is best left unspoken.  The woman, however, be she what she may—­and I know not what she is—­but that she is a responsible being—­a partaker of our common nature, and is entitled to our sympathy.  She is, I understand, in some difficulty, out of which, it seems, professional advice may help to take her.  I expect her, therefore, about this time; and will you, Samuel, just stand at that window, and when you see her approach the house, do just, quietly, and without noise, open the hall door.  Something has occurred to discompose the Christian tone which usually prevails in our household; and poor Susanna is going.  But, at all events, Sam, you are aware, it is said, that we ought not to let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.”

“I know the text, sir, well; it ends with—­’and he that giveth in secret, will reward thee openly.’”

“He—­hem—­ahem! yes it does so end; heigho!  I feel, Sam, slightly depressed in spirit, as it were, and moved, as if somewhat of my usual support were withdrawn from me.”

“Here she is, sir,” said Sam.

“Very well, Sam; please to let her in as quietly as may be, and then take this declaration to the back office, and copy it as soon as you can—­it is of importance.  We should always endeavor to render services to our fellow creatures.”

In the mean time, Sam very softly opened the hall door, and the next moment Poll entered.

Solomon, as usual, was certainly seated at his office, and held his features composed and serious to a degree; still, in spite of everything he could do, there was an expression half of embarrassment, and half of the very slightest perceptible tendency to a waggish simile, we can scarcely call it—­but, whatever it might be, there it certainly was, betraying to Poll, in spite of all his efforts, that there was still the least tincture imaginable of human frailty associated with such a vast mass of sanctity.

Polly, when she entered, took a seat, and loosening the strings of her bonnet, raised it a little, and without uttering a word sat silently looking in M’Slime’s face, with a very comic and significant expression on her own.

“No, Polly,” said he, with a serious smile, “no, you are mistaken indeed—­frail we all are, I grant you; but in this case am acting for another.  No, no, Polly—­I trust those days of vanity are gone.”

“Well, then, what else am I to do?  I sent the reports abroad about M’Loughlin and Harman’s being about to break; and of M’Loughlin I’ll soon have my revenge, by the way—­I and somebody else have the train laid for it.”

“Polly, it was from no unchristian spirit of ill-will to them—­for I trust that of such a spirit I am incapable—­but to prevent them, by an unjust act, from injuring, perhaps from ruining others.  That is my motive; but, at the same time, the whole matter is understood to be strictly confidential between you and me.”