A fine sketch; but Edward thought it desperately wild, and Mrs. Dodd preferred employing a respectable attorney to try and obtain justice in the regular way. Sampson laughed at her; what was the use of attacking in the regular way an irregular genius like old Hardie? “Attorneys are too humdrum for such a job,” said he; “they start with a civil letter putting a rogue on his guard; they proceed t' a writ and then he digs a hole in another county and buries the booty; or sails t' Australia with it. N'list'me; I'm an old friend, and an insane lover of justice--I say insane, because my passion is not returned, or the jade wouldn't keep out of my way so all these years--you leave all this to me.” “Stop a minute,” said Edward; “you must not go compromising us: and we have no money to pay for luxuries like detectives.” “I won't compromise any one of you: and my detective shan't cost y' a penny.” “Ah, my dear friend,” said Mrs. Dodd, “the fact is, you do not know all the difficulties that beset us. Tell him, Edward. Well, then, let _me._ The poor boy is attached to this gentleman's daughter, whom you propose to treat like a felon: and he is too good a son and too good a friend for me to--what, what, shall I do?” Edward coloured up to the eyes. “Who told you that, mother?” said he. “Well, yes, I do love her, and I'm not ashamed of it. Doctor,” said the poor fellow after a while, “I see now I am not quite the person to advise my mother in this matter. I consent to leave it in your hands.” And in pursuance of this resolution, he retired to his study. “There's a damnable combination,” said Sampson drily. “Truth is sairtainly more wonderful than feckshin. Here's my fathom o' good sense in love with a wax doll, and her brother jilting his sister, and her father pillaging his mother. It _beats_ hotch-potch.” Mrs. Dodd denied the wax doll: but owned Miss Hardie was open to vast objections: “An inestimable young lady; but so odd; she is one of these uneasy-minded Christians that have sprung up: a religious egotist, and _malade imaginaire,_ eternally feeling her own spiritual pulse----” “I know the disorrder,” cried Sampson eagerly: “the pashints have a hot fit (and then they are saints): followed in due course by the cold fit (and then they are the worst of sinners): and so on in endless rotation: and, if they could only realise my great discovery, the perriodicity of all disease, and time their sintiments, they would find the hot fit and the cold return chronometrically, at intervals as rigular as the tide's ebb and flow; and the soul has nothing to do with either febrile symptom. Why Religion, apart from intermittent Fever of the Brain, is just the caumest, peaceablest, sedatest thing in all the world.”