In answer to his query, the misanthropic ’Tilda vouchsafed the information that Miss Wakefield was in, adding, that he had better come this way; which siren summons he lost no time in obeying, and was thus introduced into the seclusion of Miss Wakefield’s chamber. Inquiring his name with a snap, and having obtained the desired information, the bewitching ’Tilda disappeared, and apparently appeared to be singing some sort of ditty in a crescendo voice at the foot of the stairs; the fact of the case being that Miss Wakefield was summoned _vivâ voce_; her part of the conversation being inaudible, and the voice of the charmer being perfectly distinct to the visitor, the song running something after this fashion: ‘Miss Wakefield’—um, um, ‘wanted, mum’—um, um. ‘A man, please’—um, um, um. ‘Rather tall’ (very distinctly)—um. ‘No; he is not a gentleman’—um, um, um.—‘All right, miss.’ And then she reappeared with the information that Miss Wakefield would be down at once. The space of time mentioned having resolved itself into a quarter of an hour, Mr Slimm was enabled to complete his plan of campaign, not that he anticipated any resistance—in which deduction he was decidedly wrong—but because he thought it best to be quite prepared with his story, and in a position to receive the enemy in good and compact order. By the time he had done this, and taken a mental inventory of all the furniture in the room—not a violent effort of memory—the door opened, and Miss Wakefield entered. A FEW WORDS ON SALMON ANGLING.