An exclamation and an oath proclaimed that he had just burned his finger; but he still persevered. “At last!” cried he,--“at last!” And just as the flame rose slowly up, Beecher had slipped the letter in his pocket, and substituted the other in its place. “I'll write 'Private and confidential,'” added Beecher, “to show that the communication is strictly for himself alone.” And now the document was duly sealed, and the name “Lackington” inscribed in the corner. “I 'll start to-night,” said Davis, as he placed the letter in his pocket-book; “I may have to delay a day in London, to see Fordyce. Where shall I write to you?” “I'll talk that over with my Lady,” said the other, still trembling with the remnant of his fears. “We dine at six,” added he, as Davis arose to leave the room. “So Lizzy told me,” said Davis. “You don't happen to know if she invited Twining, do you?” “No! but I hope she didn't,” said Grog, sulkily. “Why so? He's always chatty, pleasant, and agreeable,” said Beecher, whose turn it was now to enjoy the other's irritation. “He's what I hate most in the world,” said Davis, vindictively; “a swell that can walk into every leg in the Ring,--that's what he is!” And with this damnatory estimate of the light-hearted, easy-natured Adderley Twining, Grog banged the door and departed. That social sacrament, as some one calls dinner, must have a strange, mysterious power over our affections and our sympathies; for when these two men next met each other, with napkins on their knees and soup before them, their manner was bland, and even cordial. You will probably say, How could they be otherwise? that was neither the time nor place to display acrimony or bitterness, nor could they carry out in Lizzy's presence the unseemly discussion of the morning. Very true; and their bearing might, consequently, exhibit a calm and decent courtesy; but it did more,--far more; it was familiar and even friendly, and it is to the especial influence of the dinner-table that I attribute the happy change. The blended decorum and splendor--that happy union of tangible pleasure with suggestive enjoyment, so typified by a well-laid and well-spread table--is a marvellous peacemaker. Discrepant opinions blend into harmonious compromise as the savory odors unite into an atmosphere of nutritious incense, and a wider charity to one's fellows comes in with the champagne. Where does diplomacy unbend? where do its high-priests condescend to human feelings and sympathies save at dinner? Where, save at Mansion House banquets, are great Ministers facetious? Where else are grave Chancellors jocose and Treasury Lords convivial?