“Oh!” said the other, laughing, “Solomon is a cunning old fellow, who will cheat where he gets a chance. No worse Jew for that, or pawnbroker either. It is their business to cheat; and I fancy Fagin is as much of an adept at it as any one. “I hope,” he continued, after a pause, “that you were not driven by distress to the sale of an article which you must value highly?” “It was presented to me by my husband,” was the reply. “I would not have parted with it, but that this was probably the only means of saving ourselves from being turned out of doors.” “I am sorry for that,” was the sympathizing reply. “Does your husband know that you have come out on such an errand?” “No, or he would have offered to pawn some of his own clothing first. Of this I was afraid; and it was for this reason that I stole secretly out.” They had now reached the outer door of the dwelling in the upper part of which Mr. Elliott lodged. It was necessary for them to part. In parting, the stranger pressed Mrs. Elliott’s hand, and then walked rapidly away. She found, to her astonishment, that he had placed the chain in her hand. But he was now so far distant that she could not call him back. Thanking him in her heart for this unlooked-for generosity, Mrs. Elliott went up stairs with a light heart; for she foresaw, that, with the sum of money of which she had so providentially come into possession, they would be able to live comfortably for some weeks; in addition to which, she would have it in her power to procure some delicacies for her husband’s palate. After a little consideration, she decided not to mention this adventure to her husband; as the idea of her selling his gift would be painful to him, and would do him no good. There was no danger of his inquiring, so much was he absorbed in his painting. Besides, if he thought at all upon the subject, he would think she had been out on business connected with her work. She hastily passed up stairs, and set about preparing supper for herself and husband. III. The sun was not more punctual to his hour of rising than was the visit of Mr. Mudge, the landlord, to the lodging of the artist. “Well,” said he, abruptly, “have you got the rent ready? I can’t wait a day longer.” “Nor will it be necessary,” said Mrs. Elliott, calmly. “Here is the money.” Mr. Mudge, notwithstanding his love of money, looked a little disappointed at this ready payment. His mind was essentially a vulgar one; and he felt an instinctive aversion to Mrs. Elliott, whose superiority to himself he could not help admitting. He had hoped to have the pleasure of turning them out. “Well, they won’t always have ready money,” was his internal reflection; “and, the first good excuse I have, they shall go, bag and baggage.” Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott was making progress on his painting. “You deserve the prize, Arthur,” said his wife, after gazing admiringly upon her husband’s work,—“you deserve it; and I hope that you will be successful in obtaining it.”