‘I am so glad you are not angry with Wincher for being a little too familiar,’ said Lucille. ‘She cannot forget that she took care of me when I was a poor solitary child in those back rooms in Bond-street; and I know she is faithful and good.’ Jacob Wincher, or Mrs. Wincher’s good gentleman, was a feeble prowling old man, who took charge of the collection, and pottered about from morn till dewy eve—which, by the way, never was dewy in the Shadrack district—dusting, polishing, arranging, and rearranging Mr. Sivewright’s treasures—a very feeble old man, but learned in all the mysteries of bric-à-brac, and enthusiastic withal; a man whose skilful hands wandered about among egg-shell china, light as the wings of a butterfly. He had been Mr. Sivewright’s factotum in Bond-street, but was no more inclined to be communicative than Mrs. Wincher, whom he spoke of, with reciprocal respect, as his good lady. Happy summer evenings, when, in the deepening dusk, Lucius awoke the sweet sad strains of his violin, while Lucille sat knitting by the window, and Mrs. Wincher, in the inevitable bonnet, occupied the extreme edge of a chair by the door, listening with folded arms and the serious attention of a musical critic. ‘I can’t say but what I’ve a preference for livelier toons,’ she would remark, after patiently awaiting the end of a dirge by Spohr, ‘but the fingering is beautiful. I like to watch the fingering. My good gentleman used to play the fiddle very sweet afore we was married—“John Anderson my Jones,” and the “Bird Waltz,” and “British Grenayders,” and such-like—but he give it up afterwards. There was no time to waste upon music in Bond-street. Up early and abed late, and very often travel a hundred miles backards and forrards between morning and night to attend a sale in the country—that was Mr. Sivewright’s motter.’ These musical entertainments were naturally of rare occurrence. Mr. Sivewright had been for some time gradually improving, and was more inclined for society as his strength returned, but was, on the other hand, disinclined to come down-stairs; so Lucius and Lucille had to spend the greater part of their time in his room, where Lucius entertained his patient with tidings of the outer world, while Lucille made tea at a little table in the narrow space which the collector had left clear in the midst of his crowded chamber. There were a few flowers now in the one unobstructed window, and Lucille had done all she could, with her small means, to make the room pretty and homelike. Mr. Sivewright listened while the lovers discussed their future, but with no indulgent ear.