"Egerton, my good fellow," said Levy, with great composure, "you need not threaten me, for what interest can I possibly have in tale-telling to Lord L'Estrange? As to hating you--pooh! You snub me in private, you cut me in public, you refuse to come to my dinners, you'll not ask me to your own; still there is no man I like better, nor would more willingly serve. When do you want the L5000?" "Perhaps in one month, perhaps not for three or four. Let it be ready when required." "Enough; depend on it. Have you any other commands?" "None." "I will take my leave, then. By the by, what do you suppose the Hazeldean rental is worth--net?" "I don't know nor care. You have no designs upon _that_, too?" "Well, I like keeping up family connections. Mr. Frank seems a liberal young gentleman." Before Egerton could answer, the baron had glided to the door, and, nodding pleasantly, vanished with that nod. Egerton remained standing on his solitary hearth. A drear, single man's room it was, from wall to wall, despite its fretted ceilings and official pomp of Bramah escritoires and red boxes. Drear and cheerless--no trace of woman's habitation--no vestige of intruding, happy children. There stood the austere man alone. And then with a deep sigh he muttered, "Thank heaven, not for long--it will not last long." Repeating those words, he mechanically locked up his papers, and pressed his hand to his heart for an instant, as if a spasm had shot through it. "So--I must shun all emotion!" said he, shaking his head gently. In five minutes more, Audley Egerton was in the streets, his mien erect, and his step firm as ever. "That man is made of bronze," said a leader of the Opposition to a friend as they rode past the minister. "What would I give for his nerves!" (TO BE CONTINUED.) THE OPERA. BY THOMAS CARLYLE. [TO THE EDITOR OF THE LONDON KEEPSAKE: "Dear P.--Not having any thing of my own which I could contribute (as is my wish and duty) to this pious Adventure of yours, and not being able in these hot busy days to get any thing ready, I decide to offer you a bit of an Excerpt from that singular 'Conspectus of England,' lately written, not yet printed, by Professor Ezechiel Peasemeal, a distinguished American friend of mine. Dr. Peasemeal will excuse my printing it here. His 'Conspectus,' a work of some extent, has already been crowned by the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Bunkum, which includes, as you know, the chief thinkers of the New World and it will probably be printed entire in their 'Transactions' one day. Meanwhile let your readers have the first taste of it; and much good may it do them and you!"--T. C.]