Heigho, sir. It makes me sigh to lie here so long waiting to get well, till in the dusky evening time, when the gas lamps are shining up and the stars are peeping down, one gets thinking that it's time to think of that little thing as I left out of the box; and then lying all alone one seems to have all the long years fall away from one, and get back into the old, old times, and often I have been fishing, and wandering, and bird's-nesting again all over and over as it used to be. I see it all so plainly, and then get calling up all the old mates I had, and reckoning 'em up, and one's out in Indy, and another was killed in the Crimee, and another's in Australy for poaching, and among the whole lot I only knows one now, and that's me--what there is left. I don't talk like this before the old woman, but I think so much of our old churchyard, and the green graves, and yew trees; and somehow as I remember the old sunny corners and green spots, I fancy as I should like to go to sleep there far away from these courts and alleys. It seems like dying here, and being hurried away afterwards, with every one glad to get rid of you; but down in the old quiet parts it seems to me like watching the sun go down behind the hill, when the still, quiet evening comes on so soft and pleasant, and then you grow tired and worn-out and lie down to rest, taking a long, long sleep under the bright green turf. But there, I ain't in the country, I'm here in the thick of London, where I came up to seek my fortun, and never looked in the right place. We poor folks are like the children playing at "Hot boiled beans and werry good butter," and though while you're hunting for what's hid, you may get werry near sometimes, getting warmer and hotter till you're burning, yet somehow it isn't often that one finds. Some does, but there's werry few of 'em, and in the great scramble when one gets hold of anything it's a chansh if it ain't snatched out of your hand.