'We must have your adventures to-night, Owen,' cried Netta, as she entered, 'and you must tell us why you came home so very shabby. I suppose you have been wrecked on a desert island.' 'To be sure,' said Owen, laying down the pipe. 'But I must go out and find my wardrobe, and all my valuables, that my hospitable Daddy there caused me to throw down, when he gave me such a warm welcome.' Owen disappeared, but soon returned with a box in his hands, apparently of some weight, and a bundle slung across his shoulder, suspended on a walking stick. Putting down the box he began to sing,-- 'A handkerchief held all the treasure I had.' whilst he flourished his walking-stick and bundle over his mother's head. When he had finished his song, he put down his bundle and went to the box. 'I have shown you the size of my wardrobe, now allow me to show off the rest of my fortune and stock in trade. Father, you shall have the first peep. Let me put my box on the table, and the light--so. Now, stoop, so--look through that glass, so--and--have you got the right focus? Yes!--To the right, you beholds the gallant 'ero, Lord Nelson, him as lost his harm, a just fallin' in the harms of Capen 'Ardy and Victory.--To the left--but first his lordship is a singin' "England expects every man to do his dooty." To the left--' 'Well, if that isn't as pretty a picture and as much like life as anything I ever saw,' said Mr Prothero, interrupting the showman. 'Come here, mother; Netta, look here.' Mrs Prothero glanced into the box, which was nothing more nor less than a penny peep-show, and Owen began again. 'To the right you beholds,' when Netta, impatient, looked through a second glass, and exclaimed in ecstasy, 'Where did you get this, Owen?' In answer, the scene shifted, and Owen recommenced. 'Here you beholds Lisbon, that wast city, or rayther what wos Lisbon after the great earthquake. See the ruins all around, and the women and children a screamin'; and the priests a-prayin'--those men in robes is priests, papishers, like them Irish beggars.' 'Hush, Owen,' interrupted Mrs Prothero. 'Look, father, do look here!' While Mr Prothero and Netta gazed admiringly, Mrs Prothero was off and returned with Shanno, Mal, and Tom the boy, who were all in a broad grin of delight at the arrival of their prime favourite, Owen. He, meanwhile, is in his element; begins with Lord Nelson again, and makes the whole party take turns. Then he goes to Lisbon; afterwards he has The Queen of the Cannibal Islands; The Great Fire of London; a portrait large as life of the immense fat man Daniel Lambert, at sight of which the servants all exclaim 'Ach!' and a variety of other splendid designs, which we decline to enumerate. Suffice it to say that they all draw forth the approving commendations of the spectators, from Mr Prothero, master, to Tom, serving-lad.