One evening he was sitting cross-legged on his board, bending wearily over some work that had just come in from his employers, the great Tailoring firm of Push, Puff, Poetry, Placard, and Company. He had lately felt very unwell, and unable to work with his usual energy; he had been obliged more than once to cut off three or four from his wonted number of labour hours. Less work brought, as a consequence, less pay; and so the cupboard got bare, and matters became very desperate indeed with the poor Tailor. He had just put the last stitch to a couple of waistcoats which were lying on the board beside him, when a mixed feeling of hunger, pain and weakness, brought this sad thought into his mind:—“Might I not, without crime, raise a little money on one of these waistcoats, to give my sinking body its needful nourishment? I would make restitution as soon as my health returned.” Conscience grew very uneasy at this thought, and interrupted it several times with “No! no! no!” but want and pain were so loud in their clamours that these “noes” were overwhelmed. Pietro determined to go out and see if half-a-crown could not be borrowed, for a day or two, on one of the waistcoats; he was rising from his board for the purpose, when a giddy faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit down again. “Ah! I see how it is,” said he; “I am too weak to move to night; I must lie down and rest; I must put it off till to-morrow. Meanwhile, I’ll sleep upon it.” * * * * * At the counter of that Pawnbroker’s shop, where three gilt balls hang over the door, and where brushed-up clothes of all kinds for men, women, and children dangle, from pegs in back rooms and gloomy passages, there stands a wretched man, with sallow cheeks, wild-looking eyes, and long streaming hair. He has just pledged a waistcoat, and with the money in his hand is leaving the shop, when he hears a rustling sound from above. Looking up, he sees a pale, serious face looking down upon him. It has an airy, spiritual look, and seems to be floating in the air on misty wings; and then, with a low, solemn, whispering voice it sings these words:— “Toll! Toll! When a wandering soul Forsaketh the truthful and fair: Its days are unblest, Its nights are unrest, In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair. Toll! Toll!” Immediately a strong wind stirred through the belfry of St. Clement’s, and the Bell gave out one long, funereal tone. The bewildered man leaves the shop and wanders into the street, not knowing whither. He had intended to buy some bread, and tea and sugar; but, in the remorse of his mind, and with those words ringing in his ears, hunger, and thirst, and faintness were all forgotten. He tramps backwards and forwards in the streets, like a sleep-walker in a wild dream.