"I have sent for your proportion of the luggage, Sir, and it will be here directly," said Bishop. Horatio gave a nod, as much as to say "thank ye," and then he looked out at the weather. In a minute or two his share of the "_luggage_" arrived. It consisted of a little band-box, and some unwashed shirts and cravats tied up in an old silk handkerchief. Horatio opened the hand-box. There was a well-worn hat in it, two pairs of cotton stockings, and three pairs of gloves--that, somehow or other, had lost the ends of the fingers; and there was, moreover, a very nice pair of yellow morocco slippers, nearly new. Horatio turned over these things some time, seemingly in a sort of brown study; and at last, he remarked that there was a piece of Irish cloth which he did not see amongst them. Bishop said he understood the Irish cloth belonged to the lady. "No, Sir," said Horatio, "it belongs to me. It was to make me some shirts. But it is of no _great_ consequence--let her keep it!" As he said this, he sighed a little; and Bishop--willing to console him for the loss of his love as much as possible--sent for the piece of Irish cloth and delivered it to him. Horatio tied it up in his bundle; put the bundle under his arm; and, balancing the band-box on the palm of his hand, he stalked forth into the street, with the Lord Chancellor's injunction sticking out of his hinder pocket like the handle of a stewpan. Unfortunately for the picturesque, however, as he was crossing the street, the wind, which was then rather high, blew the band-box from his hand. Horatio attempted to catch it before it fell to the ground; but, instead of doing so he struck it--up it went in the air, off flew the lid, and the old hat, the stockings, the fingerless gloves, and the yellow morocco slippers, were scattered on the muddy pavement. Horatio--the luckless Horatio--gathered them up as quickly as the wind, and the carts, and the coaches would permit; but, whilst he was busied in getting them together, the _injunction_ dropped from his pocket. At last he managed to cram them, injunction and all, into the band-box; and, calling a coach, he set off for the White Horse Cellar, with the intention, no doubt, of returning to the culling of simples at home--for he was manifestly a young man who, like his namesake in the play, could take Fortune's _buffets_ as thankfully as her _rewards_. The lady, in the course of the day, was delivered to her friends in town; and thus ended the loves of Horatio and Drusilla. KITTY KAVANAGH. There was a pretty, though homely Irish girl, named _Kitty Kavanagh_, brought before the magistrate on a charge of having stolen a small piece of coarse calico from a Mrs. Dermody.