wants to know "Who said that," and so puzzles Tregony that sometimes he makes the Uncle take the Nephew's voice, and vice versâ, and the story is getting into difficulties, when the servant enters with a message to our Host from Mrs. Pendell, which brings us to our feet, and into the drawing-room, Tregony promising me the story quietly in a corner.

The other ladies have come. We all try to enter the drawing-room carelessly, as if the ladies weren't there, or as if we'd been engaged in some fearful conspiracy in the next room, and were hiding our consciousness of guilt under a mask of frivolity. Miss Bodd, of Popthlanack, is alone at a table, turning over the pages of a photographic album. I join her.

Careful Flash.—Take care never to offer an opinion on photographic or any other sort of portraits, unless you're quite sure of your ground.

I remark generally that I don't care about photographic portraits. Before Miss Bodd can answer, I hear a rustle behind me, and a voice asks simply, "Why?"

Good gracious! It is—Miss Straithmere! She is staying with the Clethers ["Mr. Clether is here," Pendell tells me. "He's written a work on the Moon. Quite a character——"], and as the Rev. Mr. Clether is the Rector of Penwiffle, she is not a mile from the house, and will be here every day.

Singing and playing. Miss Straithmere asks me, "Why I'm so serious? Will I tell her? Do. Why?"

I expect Ruddock to sing. He doesn't. Mr. Clether is talking to him. I join them. I am anxious to hear what Mr. Clether's view of the Moon is. He replies, "O, nothing particular."

"But," I urge, Ruddock listening, "You have made a study of astronomy, and in these days"—I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly what I was going to say; but I rather fancy it was that "In these days the moon isn't what it was."

Mr. Clether modestly repudiates knowing more about the moon than other people, and says that Pendell is right about his having written a book, but he has never published it.

"Why?" asks Miss Straithmere, joining us.

Carriages. Thank goodness!

I accompany Ruddock to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy Fawkes out for an airing.

I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a feu de joie of humour and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the show at the Crystal Palace.

Pendell (who I believe is still drawing him out) says to him, "You'll have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much as to say, "Now you'll hear him, now it's coming. He's shy before a party, but now——"

Ruddock replies, from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye."

And away goes the vehicle, turns the corner, and disappears from view in the avenue.

Pendell chuckles to himself. "Quite a character," I hear him murmuring. Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, "Old Ruddock! ha! ha! Rum old fellow."

And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected "Nicht wi' Ruddock." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing. Yet Pendell seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old Ruddock was at his best. After this, how about Sheridan?

Next morning.—My friend, Miss Straithmere, is coming at two o'clock. I find that I can leave, viâ Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill? No, I must go up to town, and consult my Doctor.

Adieu, Penwiffle. If I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall, out at Tintagel or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine, I should.... Well, I don't know but I should have to answer the question, "Why?"

My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the library at my Analytical History of Motion.

If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall continue it; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent exercise.

The Doctor does agree with me. He advises me to try my own prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling on him regularly every Monday.

I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make no further notes, unless, at some future time, I commence a history of a British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with a quotation from Shakspeare, who was, among other things, evidently a valetudinarian, and finish these papers by saying,

"The tenor of them doth but signify"

"My Health."

Two Gent. of Verona. Act iii. sc. 1.