It robbed him of his life in the end, and that came about in this way.  He
had been performing one evening in Gadbut's room, where a few of us were
sitting smoking and talking; and young Hollis, being in a generous mood,
had thrown him, as he thought, a sixpence.  The dog grabbed it, and
retired under the sofa.  This was an odd thing for him to do, and we
commented upon it.  Suddenly a thought occurred to Hollis, and he took
out his money and began counting it.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I've given that little beast
half-a-sovereign--here, Tiny!"

But Tiny only backed further underneath the sofa, and no mere verbal
invitation would induce him to stir.  So we adopted a more pressing plan,
and coaxed him out by the scruff of his neck.

He came, an inch at a time, growling viciously, and holding Hollis's half-
sovereign tight between his teeth.  We tried sweet reasonableness at
first.  We offered him a sixpence in exchange; he looked insulted, and
evidently considered the proposal as tantamount to our calling him a
fool.  We made it a shilling, then half-a-crown--he seemed only bored by
our persistence.

"I don't think you'll ever see this half-sovereign again, Hollis," said
Gadbut, laughing.  We all, with the exception of young Hollis, thought
the affair a very good joke.  He, on the contrary, seemed annoyed, and,
taking the dog from Gadbut, made an attempt to pull the coin out of its
mouth.

Tiny, true to his life-long principle of never parting if he could
possibly help it, held on like grim death, until, feeling that his little
earnings were slowly but surely going from him, he made one final
desperate snatch, and swallowed the money.  It stuck in his throat, and
he began to choke.

Then we became seriously alarmed for the dog.  He was an amusing chap,
and we did not want any accident to happen to him.  Hollis rushed into
his room and procured a long pair of pincers, and the rest of us held the
little miser while Hollis tried to relieve him of the cause of his
suffering.

But poor Tiny did not understand our intentions.  He still thought we
were seeking to rob him of his night's takings, and resisted vehemently.
His struggles fixed the coin firmer, and, in spite of our efforts, he
died--one more victim, among many, to the fierce fever for gold.

* * * * *

I dreamt a very curious dream about riches once, that made a great
impression upon me.  I thought that I and a friend--a very dear
friend--were living together in a strange old house.  I don't think
anybody else dwelt in the house but just we two.  One day, wandering
about this strange old rambling place, I discovered the hidden door of a
secret room, and in this room were many iron-bound chests, and when I
raised the heavy lids I saw that each chest was full of gold.

And, when I saw this, I stole out softly and closed the hidden door, and
drew the worn tapestries in front of it again, and crept back along the
dim corridor, looking behind me, fearfully.

And the friend that I had loved came towards me, and we walked together
with our hands clasped.  But I hated him.

And all day long I kept beside him, or followed him unseen, lest by
chance he should learn the secret of that hidden door; and at night I lay
awake watching him.

But one night I sleep, and, when I open my eyes, he is no longer near me.
I run swiftly up the narrow stairs and along the silent corridor.  The
tapestry is drawn aside, and the hidden door stands open, and in the room
beyond the friend that I loved is kneeling before an open chest, and the
glint of the gold is in my eyes.

His back is towards me, and I crawl forward inch by inch.  I have a knife
in my hand, with a strong, curved blade; and when I am near enough I kill
him as he kneels there.

His body falls against the door, and it shuts to with a clang, and I try
to open it, and cannot.  I beat my hands against its iron nails, and
scream, and the dead man grins at me.  The light streams in through the
chink beneath the massive door, and fades, and comes again, and fades
again, and I gnaw at the oaken lids of the iron-bound chests, for the
madness of hunger is climbing into my brain.

Then I awake, and find that I really am hungry, and remember that in
consequence of a headache I did not eat any dinner.  So I slip on a few
clothes, and go down to the kitchen on a foraging expedition.

It is said that dreams are momentary conglomerations of thought, centring
round the incident that awakens us, and, as with most scientific facts,
this is occasionally true.  There is one dream that, with slight
variations, is continually recurring to me.  Over and over again I dream
that I am suddenly called upon to act an important part in some piece at
the Lyceum.  That poor Mr. Irving should invariably be the victim seems
unfair, but really it is entirely his own fault.  It is he who persuades
and urges me.  I myself would much prefer to remain quietly in bed, and I
tell him so.  But he insists on my getting up at once and coming down to
the theatre.  I explain to him that I can't act a bit.  He seems to
consider this unimportant, and says, "Oh, that will be all right."  We
argue for a while, but he makes the matter quite a personal one, and to
oblige him and get him out of the bedroom I consent, though much against
my own judgment.  I generally dress the character in my nightshirt,
though on one occasion, for Banquo, I wore pyjamas, and I never remember
a single word of what I ought to say.  How I get through I do not know.
Irving comes up afterwards and congratulates me, but whether upon the
brilliancy of my performance, or upon my luck in getting off the stage
before a brickbat is thrown at me, I cannot say.

Whenever I dream this incident I invariably wake up to find that the
bedclothes are on the floor, and that I am shivering with cold; and it is
this shivering, I suppose, that causes me to dream I am wandering about
the Lyceum stage in nothing but my nightshirt.  But still I do not
understand why it should always be the Lyceum.

Another dream which I fancy I have dreamt more than once--or, if not, I
have dreamt that I dreamt it before, a thing one sometimes does--is one
in which I am walking down a very wide and very long road in the East End
of London.  It is a curious road to find there.  Omnibuses and trams pass
up and down, and it is crowded with stalls and barrows, beside which men
in greasy caps stand shouting; yet on each side it is bordered by a strip
of tropical forest.  The road, in fact, combines the advantages of Kew
and Whitechapel.

Some one is with me, but I cannot see him, and we walk through the
forest, pushing our way among the tangled vines that cling about our
feet, and every now and then, between the giant tree-trunks, we catch
glimpses of the noisy street.

At the end of this road there is a narrow turning, and when I come to it
I am afraid, though I do not know why I am afraid.  It leads to a house
that I once lived in when a child, and now there is some one waiting
there who has something to tell me.

I turn to run away.  A Blackwall 'bus is passing, and I try to overtake
it.  But the horses turn into skeletons and gallop away from me, and my
feet are like lead, and the thing that is with me, and that I cannot see,
seizes me by the arm and drags me back.

It forces me along, and into the house, and the door slams to behind us,
and the sound echoes through the lifeless rooms.  I recognise the rooms;
I laughed and cried in them long ago.  Nothing is changed.  The chairs
stand in their places, empty.  My mother's knitting lies upon the
hearthrug, where the kitten, I remember, dragged it, somewhere back in
the sixties.

I go up into my own little attic.  My cot stands in the corner, and my
bricks lie tumbled out upon the floor (I was always an untidy child).  An
old man enters--an old, bent, withered man--holding a lamp above his
head, and I look at his face, and it is my own face.  And another enters,
and he also is myself.  Then more and more, till the room is thronged
with faces, and the stair-way beyond, and all the silent house.  Some of
the faces are old and others young, and some are fair and smile at me,
and many are foul and leer at me.  And every face is my own face, but no
two of them are alike.

I do not know why the sight of myself should alarm me so, but I rush from
the house in terror, and the faces follow me; and I run faster and
faster, but I know that I shall never leave them behind me.

* * * * *

As a rule one is the hero of one's own dreams, but at times I have dreamt
a dream entirely in the third person--a dream with the incidents of which
I have had no connection whatever, except as an unseen and impotent
spectator.  One of these I have often thought about since, wondering if
it could not be worked up into a story.  But, perhaps, it would be too
painful a theme.

I dreamt I saw a woman's face among a throng.  It is an evil face, but
there is a strange beauty in it.  The flickering gleams thrown by street
lamps flash down upon it, showing the wonder of its evil fairness.  Then
the lights go out.

I see it next in a place that is very far away, and it is even more
beautiful than before, for the evil has gone out of it.  Another face is
looking down into it, a bright, pure face.  The faces meet and kiss, and,
as his lips touch hers, the blood mounts to her cheeks and brow.  I see
the two faces again.  But I cannot tell where they are or how long a time
has passed.  The man's face has grown a little older, but it is still
young and fair, and when the woman's eyes rest upon it there comes a
glory into her face so that it is like the face of an angel.  But at
times the woman is alone, and then I see the old evil look struggling
back.

Then I see clearer.  I see the room in which they live.  It is very poor.
An old-fashioned piano stands in one corner, and beside it is a table on
which lie scattered a tumbled mass of papers round an ink-stand.  An
empty chair waits before the table.  The woman sits by the open window.

From far below there rises the sound of a great city.  Its lights throw
up faint beams into the dark room.  The smell of its streets is in the
woman's nostrils.

Every now and again she looks towards the door and listens: then turns to
the open window.  And I notice that each time she looks towards the door
the evil in her face shrinks back; but each time she turns to the window
it grows more fierce and sullen.

Suddenly she starts up, and there is a terror in her eyes that frightens
me as I dream, and I see great beads of sweat upon her brow.  Then, very
slowly, her face changes, and I see again the evil creature of the night.
She wraps around her an old cloak, and creeps out.  I hear her footsteps
going down the stairs.  They grow fainter and fainter.  I hear a door
open.  The roar of the streets rushes up into the house, and the woman's
footsteps are swallowed up.

Time drifts onward through my dream.  Scenes change, take shape, and
fade; but all is vague and undefined, until, out of the dimness, there
fashions itself a long, deserted street.  The lights make glistening
circles on the wet pavement.  A figure, dressed in gaudy rags, slinks by,
keeping close against the wall.  Its back is towards me, and I do not see
its face.  Another figure glides from out the shadows.  I look upon its
face, and I see it is the face that the woman's eyes gazed up into and
worshipped long ago, when my dream was just begun.  But the fairness and
the purity are gone from it, and it is old and evil, as the woman's when
I looked upon her last.  The figure in the gaudy rags moves slowly on.
The second figure follows it, and overtakes it.  The two pause, and speak
to one another as they draw near.  The street is very dark where they
have met, and the figure in the gaudy rags keeps its face still turned
aside.  They walk together in silence, till they come to where a flaring
gas-lamp hangs before a tavern; and there the woman turns, and I see that
it is the woman of my dream.  And she and the man look into each other's
eyes once more.

* * * * *

In another dream that I remember, an angel (or a devil, I am not quite
sure which) has come to a man and told him that so long as he loves no
living human thing--so long as he never suffers himself to feel one touch
of tenderness towards wife or child, towards kith or kin, towards
stranger or towards friend, so long will he succeed and prosper in his
dealings--so long will all this world's affairs go well with him; and he
will grow each day richer and greater and more powerful.  But if ever he
let one kindly thought for living thing come into his heart, in that
moment all his plans and schemes will topple down about his ears; and
from that hour his name will be despised by men, and then forgotten.

And the man treasures up these words, for he is an ambitious man, and
wealth and fame and power are the sweetest things in all the world to
him.  A woman loves him and dies, thirsting for a loving look from him;
children's footsteps creep into his life and steal away again, old faces
fade and new ones come and go.

But never a kindly touch of his hand rests on any living thing; never a
kindly word comes from his lips; never a kindly thought springs from his
heart.  And in all his doings fortune favours him.

The years pass by, and at last there is left to him only one thing that
he need fear--a child's small, wistful face.  The child loves him, as the
woman, long ago, had loved him, and her eyes follow him with a hungry,
beseeching look.  But he sets his teeth, and turns away from her.

The little face grows thin, and one day they come to him where he sits
before the keyboard of his many enterprises, and tell him she is dying.
He comes and stands beside the bed, and the child's eyes open and turn
towards him; and, as he draws nearer, her little arms stretch out towards
him, pleading dumbly.  But the man's face never changes, and the little
arms fall feebly back upon the tumbled coverlet, and the wistful eyes
grow still, and a woman steps softly forward, and draws the lids down
over them; then the man goes back to his plans and schemes.

But in the night, when the great house is silent, he steals up to the
room where the child still lies, and pushes back the white, uneven sheet.

"Dead--dead," he mutters.  Then he takes the tiny corpse up in his arms,
and holds it tight against his breast, and kisses the cold lips, and the
cold cheeks, and the little, cold, stiff hands.

And at that point my story becomes impossible, for I dream that the dead
child lies always beneath the sheet in that quiet room, and that the
little face never changes, nor the limbs decay.

I puzzle about this for an instant, but soon forget to wonder; for when
the Dream Fairy tells us tales we are only as little children, sitting
round with open eyes, believing all, though marvelling that such things
should be.

Each night, when all else in the house sleeps, the door of that room
opens noiselessly, and the man enters and closes it behind him.  Each
night he draws away the white sheet, and takes the small dead body in his
arms; and through the dark hours he paces softly to and fro, holding it
close against his breast, kissing it and crooning to it, like a mother to
her sleeping baby.

When the first ray of dawn peeps into the room, he lays the dead child
back again, and smooths the sheet above her, and steals away.

And he succeeds and prospers in all things, and each day he grows richer
and greater and more powerful.




CHAPTER III


We had much trouble with our heroine.  Brown wanted her ugly.  Brown's
chief ambition in life is to be original, and his method of obtaining the
original is to take the unoriginal and turn it upside down.

If Brown were given a little planet of his own to do as he liked with, he
would call day, night, and summer, winter.  He would make all his men and
women walk on their heads and shake hands with their feet, his trees
would grow with their roots in the air, and the old cock would lay all
the eggs while the hens sat on the fence and crowed.  Then he would step
back and say, "See what an original world I have created, entirely my own
idea!"

There are many other people besides Brown whose notion of originality
would seem to be precisely similar.

I know a little girl, the descendant of a long line of politicians.  The
hereditary instinct is so strongly developed in her that she is almost
incapable of thinking for herself.  Instead, she copies in everything her
elder sister, who takes more after the mother.  If her sister has two
helpings of rice pudding for supper, then she has two helpings of rice
pudding.  If her sister isn't hungry and doesn't want any supper at all,
then she goes to bed without any supper.

This lack of character in the child troubles her mother, who is not an
admirer of the political virtues, and one evening, taking the little one
on her lap, she talked seriously to her.

"Do try to think for yourself," said she.  "Don't always do just what
Jessie does, that's silly.  Have an idea of your own now and then.  Be a
little original."

The child promised she'd try, and went to bed thoughtful.

Next morning, for breakfast, a dish of kippers and a dish of kidneys were
placed on the table, side by side.  Now the child loved kippers with an
affection that amounted almost to passion, while she loathed kidneys
worse than powders.  It was the one subject on which she did know her own
mind.

"A kidney or a kipper for you, Jessie?" asked the mother, addressing the
elder child first.

Jessie hesitated for a moment, while her sister sat regarding her in an
agony of suspense.

"Kipper, please, ma," Jessie answered at last, and the younger child
turned her head away to hide the tears.

"You'll have a kipper, of course, Trixy?" said the mother, who had
noticed nothing.

"No, thank you, ma," said the small heroine, stifling a sob, and speaking
in a dry, tremulous voice, "I'll have a kidney."

"But I thought you couldn't bear kidneys," exclaimed her mother,
surprised.

"No, ma, I don't like 'em much."

"And you're so fond of kippers!"

"Yes, ma."

"Well, then, why on earth don't you have one?"

"'Cos Jessie's going to have one, and you told me to be original," and
here the poor mite, reflecting upon the price her originality was going
to cost her, burst into tears.

* * * * *

The other three of us refused to sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of
Brown's originality.  We decided to be content with the customary
beautiful girl.

"Good or bad?" queried Brown.

"Bad," responded MacShaughnassy emphatically.  "What do you say,
Jephson?"

"Well," replied Jephson, taking the pipe from between his lips, and
speaking in that soothingly melancholy tone of voice that he never
varies, whether telling a joke about a wedding or an anecdote relating to
a funeral, "not altogether bad.  Bad, with good instincts, the good
instincts well under control."

"I wonder why it is," murmured MacShaughnassy reflectively, "that bad
people are so much more interesting than good."

"I don't think the reason is very difficult to find," answered Jephson.
"There's more uncertainty about them.  They keep you more on the alert.
It's like the difference between riding a well-broken, steady-going hack
and a lively young colt with ideas of his own.  The one is comfortable to
travel on, but the other provides you with more exercise.  If you start
off with a thoroughly good woman for your heroine you give your story
away in the first chapter.  Everybody knows precisely how she will behave
under every conceivable combination of circumstances in which you can
place her.  On every occasion she will do the same thing--that is the
right thing.

"With a bad heroine, on the other hand, you can never be quite sure what
is going to happen.  Out of the fifty or so courses open to her, she may
take the right one, or she may take one of the forty-nine wrong ones, and
you watch her with curiosity to see which it will be."

"But surely there are plenty of good heroines who are interesting," I
said.

"At intervals--when they do something wrong," answered Jephson.  "A
consistently irreproachable heroine is as irritating as Socrates must
have been to Xantippe, or as the model boy at school is to all the other
lads.  Take the stock heroine of the eighteenth-century romance.  She
never met her lover except for the purpose of telling him that she could
not be his, and she generally wept steadily throughout the interview.  She
never forgot to turn pale at the sight of blood, nor to faint in his arms
at the most inconvenient moment possible.  She was determined never to
marry without her father's consent, and was equally resolved never to
marry anybody but the one particular person she was convinced he would
never agree to her marrying.  She was an excellent young woman, and
nearly as uninteresting as a celebrity at home."

"Ah, but you're not talking about good women now," I observed.  "You're
talking about some silly person's idea of a good woman."

"I quite admit it," replied Jephson.  "Nor, indeed, am I prepared to say
what is a good woman.  I consider the subject too deep and too
complicated for any mere human being to give judgment upon.  But I _am_
talking of the women who conformed to the popular idea of maidenly
goodness in the age when these books were written.  You must remember
goodness is not a known quantity.  It varies with every age and every
locality, and it is, generally speaking, your 'silly persons' who are
responsible for its varying standards.  In Japan, a 'good' girl would be
a girl who would sell her honour in order to afford little luxuries to
her aged parents.  In certain hospitable islands of the torrid zone the
'good' wife goes to lengths that we should deem altogether unnecessary in
making her husband's guest feel himself at home.  In ancient Hebraic
days, Jael was accounted a good woman for murdering a sleeping man, and
Sarai stood in no danger of losing the respect of her little world when
she led Hagar unto Abraham.  In eighteenth-century England, supernatural
stupidity and dulness of a degree that must have been difficult to
attain, were held to be feminine virtues--indeed, they are so still--and
authors, who are always among the most servile followers of public
opinion, fashioned their puppets accordingly.  Nowadays 'slumming' is the
most applauded virtue, and so all our best heroines go slumming, and are
'good to the poor.'"

"How useful 'the poor' are," remarked MacShaughnassy, somewhat abruptly,
placing his feet on the mantelpiece, and tilting his chair back till it
stood at an angle that caused us to rivet our attention upon it with
hopeful interest.  "I don't think we scribbling fellows ever fully grasp
how much we owe to 'the poor.'  Where would our angelic heroines and our
noble-hearted heroes be if it were not for 'the poor'?  We want to show
that the dear girl is as good as she is beautiful.  What do we do?  We
put a basket full of chickens and bottles of wine on her arm, a fetching
little sun-bonnet on her head, and send her round among the poor.  How do
we prove that our apparent scamp of a hero is really a noble young man at
heart?  Why, by explaining that he is good to the poor.

"They are as useful in real life as they are in Bookland.  What is it
consoles the tradesman when the actor, earning eighty pounds a week,
cannot pay his debts?  Why, reading in the theatrical newspapers gushing
accounts of the dear fellow's invariable generosity to the poor.  What is
it stills the small but irritating voice of conscience when we have
successfully accomplished some extra big feat of swindling?  Why, the
noble resolve to give ten per cent of the net profits to the poor.

"What does a man do when he finds himself growing old, and feels that it
is time for him to think seriously about securing his position in the
next world?  Why, he becomes suddenly good to the poor.  If the poor were
not there for him to be good to, what could he do?  He would be unable to
reform at all.  It's a great comfort to think that the poor will always
be with us.  They are the ladder by which we climb into heaven."

There was silence for a few moments, while MacShaughnassy puffed away
vigorously, and almost savagely, at his pipe, and then Brown said: "I can
tell you rather a quaint incident, bearing very aptly on the subject.  A
cousin of mine was a land-agent in a small country town, and among the
houses on his list was a fine old mansion that had remained vacant for
many years.  He had despaired of ever selling it, when one day an elderly
lady, very richly dressed, drove up to the office and made inquiries
about it.  She said she had come across it accidentally while travelling
through that part of the country the previous autumn, and had been much
struck by its beauty and picturesqueness.  She added she was looking out
for some quiet spot where she could settle down and peacefully pass the
remainder of her days, and thought this place might possibly prove to be
the very thing for her.

"My cousin, delighted with the chance of a purchaser, at once drove her
across to the estate, which was about eight miles distant from the town,
and they went over it together.  My cousin waxed eloquent upon the
subject of its advantages.  He dwelt upon its quiet and seclusion, its
proximity--but not too close proximity--to the church, its convenient
distance from the village.

"Everything pointed to a satisfactory conclusion of the business.  The
lady was charmed with the situation and the surroundings, and delighted
with the house and grounds.  She considered the price moderate.

"'And now, Mr. Brown,' said she, as they stood by the lodge gate, 'tell
me, what class of poor have you got round about?'

"'Poor?' answered my cousin; 'there are no poor.'

"'No poor!' exclaimed the lady.  'No poor people in the village, or
anywhere near?'

"'You won't find a poor person within five miles of the estate,' he
replied proudly.  'You see, my dear madam, this is a thinly populated and
exceedingly prosperous county: this particular district especially so.
There is not a family in it that is not, comparatively speaking, well-to-
do.'

"'I'm sorry to hear that,' said the lady, in a tone of disappointment.
'The place would have suited me so admirably but for that.'

"'But surely, madam,' cried my cousin, to whom a demand for poor persons
was an entirely new idea, 'you don't mean to say that you _want_ poor
people!  Why, we've always considered it one of the chief attractions of
the property--nothing to shock the eye or wound the susceptibilities of
the most tender-hearted occupant.'

"'My dear Mr. Brown,' replied the lady, 'I will be perfectly frank with
you.  I am becoming an old woman, and my past life has not, perhaps, been
altogether too well spent.  It is my desire to atone for the--er--follies
of my youth by an old age of well-doing, and to that end it is essential
that I should be surrounded by a certain number of deserving poor.  I had
hoped to find in this charming neighbourhood of yours the customary
proportion of poverty and misery, in which case I should have taken the
house without hesitation.  As it is, I must seek elsewhere.'

"My cousin was perplexed, and sad.  'There are plenty of poor people in
the town,' he said, 'many of them most interesting cases, and you could
have the entire care of them all.  There'd be no opposition whatever, I'm
positive.'

"'Thank you,' replied the lady, 'but I really couldn't go as far as the
town.  They must be within easy driving distance or they are no good.'

"My cousin cudgelled his brains again.  He did not intend to let a
purchaser slip through his fingers if he could help it.  At last a bright
thought flashed into his mind.  'I'll tell you what we could do,' he
said.  'There's a piece of waste land the other end of the village that
we've never been able to do much with, in consequence of its being so
swampy.  If you liked, we could run you up a dozen cottages on that,
cheap--it would be all the better their being a bit ramshackle and
unhealthy--and get some poor people for you, and put into them.'

"The lady reflected upon the idea, and it struck her as a good one.

"'You see,' continued my cousin, pushing his advantage, 'by adopting this
method you would be able to select your own poor.  We would get you some
nice, clean, grateful poor, and make the thing pleasant for you.'

"It ended in the lady's accepting my cousin's offer, and giving him a
list of the poor people she would like to have.  She selected one
bedridden old woman (Church of England preferred); one paralytic old man;
one blind girl who would want to be read aloud to; one poor atheist,
willing to be converted; two cripples; one drunken father who would
consent to be talked to seriously; one disagreeable old fellow, needing
much patience; two large families, and four ordinary assorted couples.

"My cousin experienced some difficulty in securing the drunken father.
Most of the drunken fathers he interviewed upon the subject had a rooted
objection to being talked to at all.  After a long search, however, he
discovered a mild little man, who, upon the lady's requirements and
charitable intentions being explained to him, undertook to qualify
himself for the vacancy by getting intoxicated at least once a week.  He
said he could not promise more than once a week at first, he
unfortunately possessing a strong natural distaste for all alcoholic
liquors, which it would be necessary for him to overcome.  As he got more
used to them, he would do better.

"Over the disagreeable old man, my cousin also had trouble.  It was hard
to hit the right degree of disagreeableness.  Some of them were so very
unpleasant.  He eventually made choice of a decayed cab-driver with
advanced Radical opinions, who insisted on a three years' contract.

"The plan worked exceedingly well, and does so, my cousin tells me, to
this day.  The drunken father has completely conquered his dislike to
strong drink.  He has not been sober now for over three weeks, and has
lately taken to knocking his wife about.  The disagreeable fellow is most
conscientious in fulfilling his part of the bargain, and makes himself a
perfect curse to the whole village.  The others have dropped into their
respective positions and are working well.  The lady visits them all
every afternoon, and is most charitable.  They call her Lady Bountiful,
and everybody blesses her."

Brown rose as he finished speaking, and mixed himself a glass of whisky
and water with the self-satisfied air of a benevolent man about to reward
somebody for having done a good deed; and MacShaughnassy lifted up his
voice and talked.

"I know a story bearing on the subject, too," he said.  "It happened in a
tiny Yorkshire village--a peaceful, respectable spot, where folks found
life a bit slow.  One day, however, a new curate arrived, and that woke
things up considerably.  He was a nice young man, and, having a large
private income of his own, was altogether a most desirable catch.  Every
unmarried female in the place went for him with one accord.

"But ordinary feminine blandishments appeared to have no effect upon him.
He was a seriously inclined young man, and once, in the course of a
casual conversation upon the subject of love, he was heard to say that he
himself should never be attracted by mere beauty and charm.  What would
appeal to him, he said, would be a woman's goodness--her charity and
kindliness to the poor.

"Well, that set the petticoats all thinking.  They saw that in studying
fashion plates and practising expressions they had been going upon the
wrong tack.  The card for them to play was 'the poor.'  But here a
serious difficulty arose.  There was only one poor person in the whole
parish, a cantankerous old fellow who lived in a tumble-down cottage at
the back of the church, and fifteen able-bodied women (eleven girls,
three old maids, and a widow) wanted to be 'good' to him.

"Miss Simmonds, one of the old maids, got hold of him first, and
commenced feeding him twice a day with beef-tea; and then the widow
boarded him with port wine and oysters.  Later in the week others of the
party drifted in upon him, and wanted to cram him with jelly and
chickens.

"The old man couldn't understand it.  He was accustomed to a small sack
of coals now and then, accompanied by a long lecture on his sins, and an
occasional bottle of dandelion tea.  This sudden spurt on the part of
Providence puzzled him.  He said nothing, however, but continued to take
in as much of everything as he could hold.  At the end of a month he was
too fat to get through his own back door.

"The competition among the women-folk grew keener every day, and at last
the old man began to give himself airs, and to make the place hard for
them.  He made them clean his cottage out, and cook his meals, and when
he was tired of having them about the house, he set them to work in the
garden.

"They grumbled a good deal, and there was a talk at one time of a sort of
a strike, but what could they do?  He was the only pauper for miles
round, and knew it.  He had the monopoly, and, like all monopolises, he
abused his position.

"He made them run errands.  He sent them out to buy his 'baccy,' at their
own expense.  On one occasion he sent Miss Simmonds out with a jug to get
his supper beer.  She indignantly refused at first, but he told her that
if she gave him any of her stuck-up airs out she would go, and never come
into his house again.  If she wouldn't do it there were plenty of others
who would.  She knew it and went.

"They had been in the habit of reading to him--good books with an
elevating tendency.  But now he put his foot down upon that sort of
thing.  He said he didn't want Sunday-school rubbish at his time of life.
What he liked was something spicy.  And he made them read him French
novels and seafaring tales, containing realistic language.  And they
didn't have to skip anything either, or he'd know the reason why.

"He said he liked music, so a few of them clubbed together and bought him
a harmonium.  Their idea was that they would sing hymns and play high-
class melodies, but it wasn't his.  His idea was--'Keeping up the old
girl's birthday' and 'She winked the other eye,' with chorus and skirt
dance, and that's what they sang.

"To what lengths his tyranny would have gone it is difficult to say, had
not an event happened that brought his power to a premature collapse.
This was the curate's sudden and somewhat unexpected marriage with a very
beautiful burlesque actress who had lately been performing in a
neighbouring town.  He gave up the Church on his engagement, in
consequence of his _fiancee's_ objection to becoming a minister's wife.
She said she could never 'tumble to' the district visiting.

"With the curate's wedding the old pauper's brief career of prosperity
ended.  They packed him off to the workhouse after that, and made him
break stones."

* * * * *

At the end of the telling of his tale, MacShaughnassy lifted his feet off
the mantelpiece, and set to work to wake up his legs; and Jephson took a
hand, and began to spin us stories.

But none of us felt inclined to laugh at Jephson's stories, for they
dealt not with the goodness of the rich to the poor, which is a virtue
yielding quick and highly satisfactory returns, but with the goodness of
the poor to the poor, a somewhat less remunerative investment and a
different matter altogether.

For the poor themselves--I do not mean the noisy professional poor, but