SPREAD OF SMALLPOX.
   135 CASES.

When I saw that I took young Mr. Warren’s hand.’

‘Were you wearing the ring?’ asked Merton.

’No; it was in my dressing-bag.  I said, “Mr. Warren, I know what care clouds your brow.  You are brooding over the fate of the young, the fair, the beloved—­the unvaccinated.  I know the story of your heart.”

’"How the D—–­ I mean, how do you know, Miss Martin, about my private affairs?”

’"A little bird has told me,” I said (style of The Young Girl, you know).  “I have friends in Bulcester who esteem you.  No, I must not mention names, but I come, not too late, I hope, to bring you security.  She shall be preserved from this awful scourge, and you shall be her preserver.”  He wanted to know how it was to be done, of course, and after taking his word of honour for secrecy, I told him that the remedy would lie in his own hands, showed him the ring, and taught him how to work it.  Mr. Squeers,’ went on Miss Martin, ’had never wopped a boy in a cab before, and I had never beheld a scene of passionate emotion before—­in a four-wheeler.  He called me his preserver, he said that I was an angel, he knelt at my feet, and, if we had been on the stage—­as Mr. Merton said—­’

‘And were you on the stage?’ asked Merton.

’That is neither here nor there.  It was an instructive experience, and you little know the treasures of passion that may lie concealed in the heart of a young oilcloth manufacturer.’

‘Happy young oilcloth manufacturer!’ murmured Merton.

’They are both happy, but I did not manage my fortunate conclusion in my own way.  When young Mr. Warren had moderated the transports of his gratitude we were in the suburbs of Bulcester, where the mill-owners live in houses of the most promiscuous architecture:  Tudor, Jacobean, Queen Anne, Bedford Park Queen Anne, chalets, Chineseries, “all standing naked in the open air,” for the trees have not grown up round them yet.  Then we came to a gate without a lodge, the cabman got down and opened it, and we were in the visible presence of Mr. Warren’s villa.  The style is the Scottish Baronial; all pepper-pots, gables and crowsteps.

’"What a lovely old place!” I said to my companion.  “Have you secret passages and sliding panels and dark turnpike stairs?  What a house for conspiracies!  There is a real turret window; can’t you fancy it suddenly shot up and the king’s face popped out, very red, and bellowing, ‘Treason!’”

’At that moment, when my imagination was in full career, the turret window was shot up, and a face, very red, with red whiskers, was popped out.

’"That is my father,” said young Mr. Warren; and we alighted, and a very small maidservant opened the portals of the baronial hall, while the cabman carried up my trunk, and Mr. Warren, senior, greeted me in the hall.