The first Sunday after Christmas is here:--Brown is in bed; the little bell of St. Stiff's has stopped, and many another vibratory sound is dying in the distance; flakes of snow are moodily descending--causing the fire to spit angrily, and the face of heaven to look black--all light appearing to come from the earth; sound is deadened, the carpet is darker than usual, and the ceiling lighter; Mr. Brown's eyes are up there, for he is lying, tracing amid the cracks and stains, vast palaces like pictures by Martin, or aerial phantasmagorias by Turner. Brown is lying, nursing his influenza according to the approved adage; though some read the maxim thus, "Stuff a cold, and (have to) starve a fever." Let us hope Brown has the right version. Captain de Camp has come to read to the invalid, and drink his brandy and water--he has begun "Blair's Sermons," or rather the life of Blair, prefixed to the volume, in a full conviction of its religious tendency; whilst in the room above is John, the footman, standing upon his bed, breathing on the single pane of glass, inserted in the sloped roof, that he may melt the snow, and see to read a mysterious document--a tumbled note,--not on the Bank of England, but an epistolatory one, found in the trowsers pockets of Mr. Latimer de Camp--the same cast off by that gentleman on Christmas-day, when he stumbled over the strange dinner, in coming from church, and so much deteriorated their appearance as to give them to John;--who now, thinking he has found evidence,--thinks he always thought he thought the De Camps scamps. John is perplexed at the purport of the letter; and feeling a cold thrill run through him, he turns into bed, there to reflect for ten minutes upon the downy pillow, pondering with intensely closed eyes, considering before he puts himself in the power of an enemy--for John had been a soldier once, and would have been one now, had not his poor old mother starved and mangled together enough to buy him off; he bore the stamp of military drill, took in "Tales of the Wars," in penny numbers, and had a cheap print of the "Battle of Waterloo" pasted to the sloping roof, above the bed, in which we left him pondering. Having considered enough, he takes once more to the document, folding and unfolding it, examining the thimble impress on the seal, tasting a corner of it in his excitement, and reading it with intense energy for the last time: it is directed to "Latimer de Camp, Esq., M.A., Albert Villa, Mizzlington;" and was posted in the New Cut:-- No. 2, Grubb's Rents. "DEAR EDWARD, "I am anxiously awaiting the '_Conspiracy_,'--do not keep me in suspense!--_do_ DO it, for my _benefit_.--I sadly want _money_. Is the _plot_ too _horrible_ for you!--you know how to do for a '_Victoria_' company!--make a _domestic tragedy_ of it--_shoot_ the _father_ and _son_!--you know the rest. Pray communicate, or I shall think you in trouble. "Your forlorn--EMMA."