Jared is in his old place, with two fresh cherubs perched there, one on either side of the organ--fresh-coloured, bright-eyed, restless cherubs, upon whom the old wooden bloated angels of the instrument look jealously down. And there sits "Grandpa," pretending to practise, but a very slave to the whims and caprices of these household gods. Wonderful now are the variations made upon the pieces played: pedals are pressed down by tiny feet, stops are pulled out or pushed in; then bass or treble discords are played at unexpected times by little pudgy hands; or in the midst of the grand composition of some noble old master, the organ once more gives forth its dying wails, for the wind is out, through Ichabod Gunnis playing at "bo-peep" between the curtains with one of the cherubs, and miscalculating the lasting properties of a well-pumped, full chest of wind. But all this does not trouble Jared, who looks the picture of earthly happiness. Poor Jared! he is head of the Austin Friars establishment, but he is afraid of the manager there, and slinks guardedly in and out. He goes every other day, because his son-in-law wishes it; but Jared is always very nervous, and fancies that the manager looks down upon him, because he comes up every Sunday from Highgate to play St Runwald's organ, and afterwards eat a modest chop in Fleet Street with Canau, who generally has been with him to help him with the stops. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The scenes come quickly now across the face of the mirror--scenes of grey old men smoking long pipes, and playing cribbage or whist at Harry's place, or at Jared's home; of life's downward course made smoother for many by the heaped-up wealth that Jared inherits; of old Timson standing before the organist, with hands beneath his coat-tails, and a frown upon his brow, though there is an odd twinkle in his eye as he points to a deficiency in the poor-box, reproached the while by the vicar, who goes with the churchwarden to empty the boxes upon the very next day, to find that deficiency is amply made up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ No glance at mirror now, but a long gaze from a seat at the reality. There is the faint glow from behind the curtain; the softened tones are pealing and quivering in the air as they float round the darkened church. The music is sweet but sad, and the soft strains thrill as they sound funereal--dirge-like. Is it the touch of Jared? The tall golden pipes stand up ray-like, and they quiver in the glow. The hour is late, the streets are getting hushed, and the solemnity of the place seems oppressive, aided as it is in its influence upon the senses by the wailing strains that sob through the air.