so?"

"Indeed I do," he answered eagerly, "and I will accompany you—that is, if I may," he added, apologetically.

"If you may!" was the arch reply. In another minute they were strolling leisurely along, side by side, towards the "Great Square of Recreation," that was already scintillating in the distance, lit up with the electric light as with the full blaze of day. As they were emerging from the garden-path, they passed a small child. She was carrying a little stone funereal urn, and she nodded to them. They stopped for a moment.

"Why, Polly, dear, what have you got there?" asked Betsy Jane, stooping down to kiss the child.

"Oh! it's only Great Grandmother," went on the little speaker, volubly. "I'm fetching her from the Crematorium. She was only ashed yesterday, you know, and father says he would like to have her on the parlour chimney-piece as soon as possible; and so I am bringing her home."

"Well, my little woman," threw out Halfinch, kindly. "Take care you don't drop your Great Grandmother, that's all."

"Oh no! I can carry her well enough," was the prompt response; and little Polly was soon bounding away across the grass merrily, with her ancestral burthen.

Betsy Jane and Jeremiah Halfinch had presented their passes at the door of the Opera House, listened to an Act of Wagner's incomparable music, and were now once more coming homewards. Their conversation had had a wide range, touching at one moment on the Norse Saga, and at another on the Binomial Theorem; now on the Philosophy of Epictetus, and now on the latest speculations as to the basis of Nebular Matter. They were deeply interested in their talk, and it was not till they were suddenly arrested in their progress that they became aware that their path was stopped by a Policeman who was kindly stooping over a little child who was crying over something she had dropped.

"Oh! it is little Polly; and she has let her Great Grandmother fall!" cried Betsy Jane, much concerned.

"Yes, and I have spilled her; and father will be so cross!" added the child in tears, pointing to the broken vase and to some white ash that laid upon the gravel path.

"Never mind, my little woman, we will soon make it all right," answered Halfinch, at the same time taking an evening paper from his pocket, and carefully collecting the broken fragments of the vase and its contents, and making them up into a neat parcel. "There," he added, "he'll have to get a new vase. But you may tell your father I think he'll find his Grandmother all there. So wipe your eyes and get home as fast as you can."

They watched the figure of the receding child.

"You don't have much work down this way nowadays?" inquired Halfinch amiably of the Policeman.

"Much work! Why, bless you, Sir, beyond occasionally running in an Unemployed Sweater, we have none at all."

"Well, good night, Miss Betsy Jane," said Halfinch.

"Good night, Mr. Halfinch," responded the lovely girl.

Then they each turned to their brilliantly-lighted Co-operative Palace homes. Silence soon fell upon the scene. Another happy East-End day had come to its luxurious close.

NEW YEAR MEMS.

Lord S-l-sb-ry. Smother Howard Vincent & Co.—at least in public. Give private tip to Hartington, Bright, and Goschen, to get me talked about as a "second Cobden."

Mr. W. E. Gl-dst-ne. Mem.—Feel a little "chippy" this morning. Go out axing. Send New Year's Card to Dopping. Forgive and Forget. Write fewer letters, make fewer speeches, avoid railway station oratory; Ch-mb-rl-n's imitating me there. Shall have him next taking to chopping trees in Prince's Gardens. Mem.—Return to use of post-cards; shall also give up writing magazine-articles and devote myself more to commercial pursuits; there's a good deal to be done in chips if one gives his mind to it. Why not leave Hawarden and reside at Chipping Norton?

Mr. B-lf-r. Gingerly manipulate the "Crimes Act" across the Channel for the next few weeks. Mem.—Parliament opens Feb. 9th. Be careful what I say or write about anybody. Consult Solicitor.

Special.

C. S. P-rn-ll. Change my name and address next year, call myself B-ckle of the Times.

Mr. Ch-mb-rl-n. Retire from "Fisheries'" as gracefully and as soon as possible. As J-sse C-ll-ngs would say, "Hook it." Codling's the man.

The Lord Ch-f J-st-ce of Engl-nd. Shall begin New Year by leaving off voice lozenges, or may be called a "Sucking Ch-f J-st-ce." Shouldn't like this, and I know of one worldly journalist who wouldn't hesitate to write it.

The Right Hon. J. G. G-sch-n, M.P. Think I shall go back to the Liberal Party for a year at least; have tried them all round; find the last rather worse than others. R-nd-lph says I should by this time be an authority on the principle of the "Theory of Exchanges."

Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt, M.P. Shall begin to get up every morning at seven during recess, and go out for walk in glades of New Forest before breakfast. Find it a capital place to think out impromptus for my speeches.

Monsignor P-rs-co. Mem.—Keep myself to myself, and don't say nothing to nobody.

Archbishop Cr-ke. Ask Thos. O'Dw-er of Limerick to dinner. Cut National League on first opportunity.

Archbishop B-ns-n. Study the Calendar of State Papers, time of Henry the Eighth, carefully. Get portrait of myself done in full canonicals, with the two acolytes in scarlet skull-caps and cassocks, as we appeared at Truro. Pretty subject: great scope for artist.

Bishop of L-nd-n. "Oblige B-ns-n." Ask St-w-rt H-dl-m to take me to the Alhambra. Try and get a copy of that now extinct work, Essays and Reviews.

Lord D-nr-v-n. Must find out what I really mean by "Fair Trade." Write to Notes and Queries, and see if I can't get a definition somehow.

Mr. O'Br-n. Continue to pose as the "Martyr of Tullamore." Meantime, endeavour to get supplied with still more fashionable clothes. Why not a cheque suit, from America?

Cardinal M-nn-ng. Do something of everything. Mem.—Buy new Filter.

The L-rd Ch-nc-ll-r. Must really show some reason for my being in this exalted position. Find comfortable quarters for a few of my nephews, cousins, and sons-in-law who are still among "the Unemployed."

The Right Hon. J-hn Br-ght, M.P. Mem.—J-hn Br-ght, Always right. Politeness costs nothing. Get someone to give me a short manual of this almost-lost art, like prize-fighting. The latter being revived. Practise both.

Mr. C. V-ll-rs St-nf-rd. Inaugurate my Professorship in style. Get to work, and show 'em I'm the best man to turn out a genuinely successful first-class English