"Poor! Oh, very well--very well. You have done with me now. Good day-- good day. I'm busy." The stranger pecked for a moment at his hat--turned the handle of the door-peered under his grey eyebrows at the portly trader, who, with both hands buried in his pockets, his mouth pursed up, like a man about to say "No" fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton's chair. He sighed, shook his head, and vanished. Mrs. Morton rang the bell-the maid-servant entered. "Wipe the carpet, Jenny;--dirty feet! Mr. Morton, it's a Brussels!" "It was not my fault, my dear. I could not talk about family matters before the whole shop. Do you know, I'd quite forgot those poor boys. This unsettles me. Poor Catherine! she was so fond of them. A pretty boy that Sidney, too. What can have become of them? My heart rebukes me. I wish I had asked the man more." "More!--why he was just going to beg." "Beg--yes--very true!" said Mr. Morton, pausing irresolutely; and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, "And, damme, if he had begged, I could afford him a shilling! I'll go after him." So saying, he hastened back through the shop, but the man was gone--the rain was falling, Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on--he blew his nose, and went back to the counter. But, there, still rose to his memory the pale face of his dead sister; and a voice murmured in his ear, "Brother, where is my child?" "Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go and get me the county paper." Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and was deep in a trial for murder, when another stranger strode haughtily into the shop. The new-comer, wrapped in a pelisse of furs, with a thick moustache, and an eye that took in the whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling to floor, in a glance, had the air at once of a foreigner and a soldier. Every look fastened on him, as he paused an instant, and then walking up to the alderman, said,-- "Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton?" "At your commands, sir," said Roger, rising involuntarily. "A word with you, then, on business." "Business!" echoed Mr. Morton, turning rather pale, for he began to think himself haunted; "anything in my line, sir? I should be--" The stranger bent down his tall stature, and hissed into Mr. Morton's foreboding ear: "Your nephews!" Mr. Morton was literally dumb-stricken. Yes, he certainly was haunted! He stared at this second questioner, and fancied that there was something very supernatural and unearthly about him. He was so tall, and so dark, and so stern, and so strange. Was it the Unspeakable himself come for the linendraper? Nephews again! The uncle of the babes in the wood could hardly have been more startled by the demand! "Sir," said Mr. Morton at last, recovering his dignity and somewhat peevishly,--"sir, I don't know why people should meddle with my family affairs. I don't ask other folks about their nephews. I have no nephew that I know of."