It was a bitter day without, and now it seemed as cold within. The very fire in the bright little grate appeared to have turned duller, and the air more chill. As to the cold scraps of mutton, they were perfectly icy, and the fat flew off in chips and splinters. A cloud had settled down upon the house, so that there were even great tears round the potato-dish. As to piercing the cloud, all Jared's efforts were in vain, for as fast as he tried to shine in a warm and genial manner to disperse this oppressive mist of adversity, he encountered one of Mrs Jared's looks, which he interpreted to be suspicious--doubtful; and, one way and another, the meal was cold, not merely to a degree, but to many. There was no work to do that afternoon; no musical cripples to doctor orthopaedically; no cracked instruments to solder, putty, or wax-end; no bellows to mend, hammers to refit, or false notes to tune in accordion or concertina. Trade was at a standstill, and Jared wondered how he should get through the afternoon till the hour when he had appointed Ichabod to meet him at the church for a last long evening practice at the old organ. But the dinner was hardly over before the postman came by. Jared knew his legs as they passed the area grating, and ran up-stairs to see if he were coming there. For a wonder, he was, and as may be supposed, he left a letter. Strange hand, and yet familiar. It must be from the vicar. But no; it was not his hand, Jared knew that too well to be mistaken, and his fingers involuntarily felt in his breastpocket for the missive which contained the key--a missive that he had of late told himself he ought to have taken to a good solicitor for advice, instead of quietly sitting down beneath the slur. But perhaps, under the circumstances, the vicar had felt disposed to let some one else write to him. It must be the cheque; there could not be a doubt about it. No one else would write to him unless--unless-- Jared's brow grew moist, as, in the ignorance of such matters, he stood trembling with the letter in his hand. Might not the vicar have taken legal proceedings, and sent him a summons, now that his time had expired? That was a dreadful thought, and embraced innumerable horrors--the felon's dock, police-van, cells, convicts, servitude, and worse, infinitely worse than all--a starving wife and children. Jared had a hard fight to recover his composure before going down again to the kitchen, where he tore open the letter. Mr McBriar, the landlord, had sent his compliments, and a reminder, that though the rent for the quarter ending at Christmas would be due in a few days, that for the quarter ending at Michaelmas had not yet been paid.