Book 6. 
XXXII.  In which Evan’s light begins to twinkle again
XXXIII.  The hero takes his rank in the orchestra
XXXIV.  A pagan sacrifice
XXXV.  Rose wounded
XXXVI.  Before breakfast
XXXVII.  The retreat from Beckley
XXXVIII.  In which we have to see in the dark

Book 7. 
XXXIX.  In the domain of tailordom
XL.  In which the countess still scents game
XLI.  Reveals an abominable plot of the brothers Cogglesby
XLII.  Juliana
XLIII.  Rose
XLIV.  Contains A warning to all conspirators
XLV.  In which the shop becomes the centre of attraction
XLVI.  A lover’s parting
XLVII.  A year later the countess de Saldar de Sancorvo to her
          sister Caroline

CHAPTER I

ABOVE BUTTONS

Long after the hours when tradesmen are in the habit of commencing business, the shutters of a certain shop in the town of Lymport-on-the-Sea remained significantly closed, and it became known that death had taken Mr. Melchisedec Harrington, and struck one off the list of living tailors.  The demise of a respectable member of this class does not ordinarily create a profound sensation.  He dies, and his equals debate who is to be his successor:  while the rest of them who have come in contact with him, very probably hear nothing of his great launch and final adieu till the winding up of cash-accounts; on which occasions we may augur that he is not often blessed by one or other of the two great parties who subdivide this universe.  In the case of Mr. Melchisedec it was otherwise.  This had been a grand man, despite his calling, and in the teeth of opprobrious epithets against his craft.  To be both generally blamed, and generally liked, evinces a peculiar construction of mortal.  Mr. Melchisedec, whom people in private called the great Mel, had been at once the sad dog of Lymport, and the pride of the town.  He was a tailor, and he kept horses; he was a tailor, and he had gallant adventures; he was a tailor, and he shook hands with his customers.  Finally, he was a tradesman, and he never was known to have sent in a bill.  Such a personage comes but once in a generation, and, when he goes, men miss the man as well as their money.

That he was dead, there could be no doubt.  Kilne, the publican opposite, had seen Sally, one of the domestic servants, come out of the house in the early morning and rush up the street to the doctor’s, tossing her hands; and she, not disinclined to dilute her grief, had, on her return, related that her master was then at his last gasp, and had refused, in so many words, to swallow the doctor.