inducted into the Secretaryship of the Tin-Tax Office, then vacant. They did not like him at first at the Tin-Tax; they thought Bingham ought to have succeeded to the berth; and Bingham--who was a very gouty old gentleman, who took a great deal of snuff, and swore a great deal, and kept a pocket-dictionary in the right-hand top-drawer of his desk wherewith to correct his orthography--thought so too. But Sir Hickory Maddox, who was not merely very popular, but very much respected by his men, showed such thorough appreciation of Mr. Simnel's talents, and so thoroughly endorsed all the Secretary's acts, that the men began to waver in their allegiance to the Bingham faction; to think that Bingham was little better than an old idiot; that "new blood" in the secretariat might probably not only improve the status of the Tin-Tax Office, but get a new and improved scale for the clerks; and when they found that, after a couple of years, the new Secretary actually did accomplish this feat, the new Secretary was popular for ever. Popular officially, not privately. The juniors at the Tin-Tax had been in the habit of chaffing their late lamented secretary; of bribing him, by gifts of game and hothouse fruits, to grant them odd days and even weeks of leave of absence; of chatting with him familiarly on current events. Mr. Simnel's manners effectually checked all that kind of thing. With the Commissioners he might unbend; with the juniors he was adamant. But if he met one of his men in society, in the Opera lobby, or at a Botanical Fête, he would make a point of shaking hands with him as though they hadn't seen each other for ages, and of talking with him of every subject possible--except the Tin-Tax Office. The pile of papers for signature had melted to one solitary document, the floor was strewn with the evidences of Mr. Simnel's handiwork, and Mr. Simnel himself sat nursing his leg and swaying himself gently to and fro in meditation. Occasionally he would pass his disengaged hand through his fringe of hair, and smile quietly to himself, then make a few figures on his blotting-pad, add them, and set-to rocking again. In the midst of this occupation he heard his door open, and looking up, saw Mr. Beresford. "Why, what the deuce does this mean?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "I thought you were on Tom Tiddler's ground, picking up unlimited gold and silver, wooing heiresses, and settling a Belgravian ménage; and you turn up in this dingy old barrack. Is it all over?--has the lady succumbed? and do you want me to help you to choose fire-irons and window-curtains?" Mr. Beresford did not reply for a minute; then he said, shortly and decisively, "I've been sold!" Mr. Simnel gave one short, loud whistle, and said interrogatively, "Wouldn't?" Mr. Beresford, seating himself on the edge of the table, looked up at Mr. Simnel, who had taken up his position on the rug, with his back to the empty fireplace, and said, "No chance; booked beforehand!"