Coming back to B—, the bright little town seemed sitting in the shadow of death. “Any news?” said I to the station-master as I got out of the train. “Only that the bank is broke,” was the reply. “Ah! that won’t matter to you,” said one to me, “your friends will help you.” In vain I repeated that I had no friends. “Ah, well,” said another, “you can work; it is the old, the infirm, the sick, who are past work, for whom I am sorry.” And thus I am left to sleep off my losses as best I may, trying to believe that the difficulty is only temporary, and positively assured in some quarters that the bank will open all right next day. Alas! hope tells a flattering tale. Next morning, after a decent interval, to show that, like Dogberry, I am used to losses, I take my morning walk and casually pass the bank, only to see that the door is as firmly closed as ever; I read all the morning papers, and they tell me that the bank will be opened as usual at ten. I know better, and all I meet are sorrowing. One melancholy depositor, who tells me that the bank has all the money he has taken this summer and his pension besides, assures me that the bank will open at twelve. I pass two hours later, and it is still shut. Women are weeping as they see ruin staring them in the face. Woe to me; my butcher calls for his little account. I have to ask him to call again. I see the tax-gatherer eyeing me from afar, likewise the shoemaker; but I rush inside to find that the midday mail has arrived, bringing me a letter from town, as follows: “With respect to your cheque on Brown’s Bank, received yesterday, I regret to hear this day of the suspension of the bank. Under these circumstances your cheque will not be cleared, so that we shall have to debit your account with it.” This is pleasant. I have another cheque sent by the same post as the other. I begin to fear on that account. Happily, no more letters of that kind come in, and I take another turn in the open air. Every one looks grave. There are little knots of men standing like conspirators in every street. They are trying to comfort one another. “Oh, it will be all right,” I hear them exclaim; but they look as if they did not believe what they said, and felt it was all wrong. Now and then one steals away towards the bank, but the door is still shut, and he comes back gloomier-looking than ever. I am growing sad myself. I have not seen a smile or heard a pleasant word to-day, except from my neighbour, who chuckles over the fact that his account is overdrawn. He laughs on the other side of his mouth, however, when he realises the fact that he has cheques he has not sent in. Another day comes, and I know my fate. Some banks have agreed to come to the rescue. They will pay all bank-notes in full, and will make advances not exceeding 15s. in the pound in respect of credit accounts as may be necessary. Happily, our little town is safe. Another