rather greater than that I should have to
pay in Bond Street—viz., about ten shillings
—a powerful sum for a bath. If my
servant had not blown my trumpet with such
haughtiness and vivacity while entertaining
his little world of admirers in the anteroom,
I might have got off for twopence, as other
people do. Ah, Hamed! Hamed!

NORTH AND SOUTH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

MR. THORNTON went straight and hard into
all the interests of the following day. There
was a slight demand for finished goods; and,
as it affected his branch of the trade, he took
advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He
was sharp to the hour at the meeting of his
brother magistrates,—giving them the best
assistance of his strong sense, and his power
of seeing consequences at a glance, and so
coming to a rapid decision. Older men, men
of long standing in the town, men of far
greater wealth—realised and turned into
land, while his was all floating capital,
engaged in his trade—looked to him for prompt
ready wisdom. He was the one deputed to see
and arrange with the police—to lead in all the
requisite steps. And he cared for their
unconscious deference no more than for the soft
west wind, that scarcely made the smoke
from the great tall chimneys swerve in its
straight upward course. He was not aware
of the silent respect paid to him. If it had
been otherwise, he would have felt it as an
obstacle in his progress to the object he had
in view. As it was, he looked to the speedy
accomplishment of that alone. It was his
mother's greedy ears that sucked in, from
the womenkind of these magistrates and
wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or Mr.
That thought of Mr. Thornton; that if he
had not been there, things would have gone
on very differently,—very badly, indeed. He
swept off his business right and left that day.
It seemed as though his deep mortification of
yesterday, and the stunned purposeless course
of the hours afterwards, had cleared away all
the mists from his intellect. He felt his
power and revelled in it. He could almost
defy his heart. If he had known it, he could
have sang the song of the miller who lived by
the river Dee:—

I care for nobody—
Nobody cares for me.

The evidence against Boucher and other
ringleaders of the riot was taken before him;
that against the three others, for conspiracy,
failed. But he sternly charged the police to
be on the watch; for the swift right arm of
the law should be in readiness to strike as
soon as they could prove a fault. And then
he left the hot reeking room in the borough
court, and went out into the fresher but still
sultry street. It seemed as though he gave
way all at once; he was so languid that he
could not control his thoughts; they would
wander to her; they would bring back the
scene,—not of his repulse and rejection the
day before, but the looks, the actions of the
day before that. He went along the crowded
streets mechanically, winding in and out
among the people, but never seeing them,—
almost sick with longing for that one
half-hour—that one brief space of time when she
clung to him and her heart beat against his
—to come once again.

"Why, Mr. Thornton! you're cutting me
very coolly, I must say. And how is Mrs.
Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors
don't like it, I can tell you!"

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I
really did not see you. My mother's quite
well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good
for the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well
got in, we shall have a brisk trade next year,
whatever you doctors have."

"Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your
bad weather, and your bad times, are my
good ones. When trade is bad, there's more
undermining of health, and preparation for
death, going on among you Milton men than
you're aware of."

"Not with me, Doctor. I 'm made of iron.
The news of the worst bad debt I ever had
never made my pulse vary. This strike,
which affects me more than any one else in
Milton,—more than Hamper,—never comes
near my appetite. You must go elsewhere
for a patient, Doctor."

"By the way, you've recommended me a
good patient, poor lady! Not to go on talking
in this heartless way, I seriously believe that
Mrs. Hale—that lady in Crampton, you know
—hasn't many weeks to live. I never had any
hope of cure, as I think I told you; but I've
been seeing her to-day, and I think very
badly of her."

Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted
steadiness of pulse failed him for an instant.

"Can I do anything, Doctor?" he asked,
in an altered voice. "You know—you would
see that money is not very plentiful;—are
there any comforts or dainties she ought to
have?"

"No," replied the Doctor, shaking his
head. "She craves for fruit,—she has a
constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will
do as well as anything, and there are
quantities of them in the market."

"You will tell me if there is anything I can
do, I'm sure," replied Mr. Thornton. "I rely
upon you."

"Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your
purse,—I know it's deep enough. I wish
you'd give me carte-blanche for all my
patients, and all their wants."

But Mr. Thornton had no general
benevolence,—no universal philanthropy; few
even would have given him credit for strong
affections. But he went straight to the first