Dickens’ “Bleak House,” was coming out in serials at that period, and Muriel, with the rest of the town, was full of it, and was particularly delighted with Mrs. Pardiggle, to whom she jestingly likened herself when she made visits of charity. “The Pardiggle path will first lead me to poor Mrs. Roux,” continued Muriel. “Mrs. Roux, in Southac street, the wife of the colored man who was here the other day to white-wash the studio. She had another child born a couple of months ago—did I tell you?—and we must take care of the black babies as well as the white ones, you know, and the black mothers, too, as well as the white mothers, most gorgeous honey-darling.” Emily smiled at the pet name Muriel bestowed upon her, admiringly gazing meanwhile at the fair face, half arch, half serious, which looked at her over the lace ruffle. “Poor Roux was very sick in March,” continued Muriel, “and has only got to work again recently—so as times are hard with them, mother and I have taken them under our wing.” “How did you find them out, Muriel?” asked Emily. “Oh, through Harrington,” answered her friend. “Harrington is the general repository of the grievances and troubles of everybody he falls in with, and when he can’t help, he tells us, and we help. We are a Pardiggle society. He is the President, and mother and I are the Board of Directors.” “I have a mind to become a member,” said Emily, smilingly. “But where next?” “Next,” answered Muriel, “I am going to make a call on the Tenehans. That’s an Irish family in North Russell street. Then there is Judith, the sempstress, for whom I have some sewing. Let’s see—that’s all to-day, I believe. Then I’m going to see Captain Greatheart.” “Who’s that?” interrupted Emily. “Mr. Parker, of course.” “Mr. Parker? Pray what entitles a lawyer to that Bunyanesque”— “A lawyer! Bless me, Emily, where are your five wits! It is _the_ Mr. Parker I mean—Theodore Parker. And is he not a model Captain Greatheart? The nineteenth century Apollyon has reason to know him in that character, at all events. So too have the poor Christians and Christianas, for whom he is guarding shield and smiting sword.” Emily bowed her head in assenting abstraction. “I’m going to see if he has in his library a book I want,” continued Muriel. “Then, perhaps, I’ll go to the Athenæum, and refresh my art-sense—no I won’t either, for I remember Fernando said he would be there, and I can’t enjoy pictures with his everlasting cavilling in my ears.” “Fernando has exquisite tastes,” said Emily, musingly. “Fernando has exquisite _dis_tastes,” returned Muriel, piquantly. “Which I shall not enjoy this morning. So instead of the Athenæum, I’ll go to the Anti-Slavery Convention at the Melodeon. Uncle Lemuel was here last evening, you know, talking up Union-saving and the Fugitive Slave Law, and Mr. Webster, and all that sort of thing, and I shan’t feel right again till I hear the voices of the Good Old Cause from the platform of the Garrisonians.”