[Illustration: Charles Dickens portrait; Handwritten: Faithfully yours] PEARL-FISHING. CHOICE STORIES, FROM Dickens’ Household Words. FIRST SERIES. AUBURN: ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO. ROCHESTER: WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO. 1854. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO., In the Clerk’s Office of the Northern District of New York. Stereotyped by THOMAS B. SMITH, 216 William St., N.Y. The Publishers’ Notice. The following Stories are selected from that admirable publication, “DICKENS’ HOUSEHOLD WORDS.” That work has had a smaller circulation in this country than its merits entitle it to, in consequence of its being issued in such form as to make it troublesome to preserve the numbers, and have them bound. Many of its papers, too, are of local and somewhat temporary interest, which scarcely touches the popular mind of American readers. It is believed, therefore, that judicious selections from its pages, embracing some of its best stories, in which the hand of the master is readily discerned, will be welcomed with delight in many a home in which the name of DICKENS has become as “familiar as household words.” I. Loaded Dice. Several years ago, I made a tour through some of the Southern Counties of England with a friend. We travelled in an open carriage, stopping for a few hours a day, or a week, as it might be, wherever there was anything to be seen; and we generally got through one stage before breakfast, because it gave our horses rest, and ourselves the chance of enjoying the brown bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country road-side inns, which are fast becoming subjects for archæological investigation. One evening my friend said, “To-morrow we will breakfast at T----. I want to inquire about a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I met the husband and wife, and two lovely children, one summer at Exmouth. We became very intimate, and I thought them particularly interesting people, but I have never seen them since.” The next morning’s sun shone as brightly as heart could desire, and after a delightful drive, we reached the outskirts of the town about nine o’clock. “Oh, what a pretty inn!” said I, as we approached a small white house, with a sign swinging in front of it, and a flower-garden on one side.