“Jim!” said one of the disguised men, “is that you?” “All right!” “Who have you got there?” “A new friend of yours and mine. It’s all right with him, too. He has been to ‘my Uncle’s,’ and another shop since then. He’s regularly in for it, now.” “Let him come with us to-night, then; we want a hand outside to watch, and help to carry. There’s good booty to-night at that house yonder, in the left-hand corner. They have been borrowing plate to-day, against a grand wedding there to-morrow morning.” The men skulked forward to the house named, and one with his iron instrument broke a shutter, then opened a window, and crept in. Others followed, and the wretched new accomplice is left outside to take what they shall hand out to him. The night is calm and still, with a few cold, glimmering stars above, and darkness all around. The wretched man paces up and down the dark gateway at the side of the house, trembling at the remembrance of those songs in the air. It is now twelve o’clock, and from all the belfries in the Strand, iron tongues proclaim it in solemn tones. The man’s quick ear plainly distinquishes St. Clement’s among them; and, as he listens with fear, the pale face hovers over him once more, resting on its misty wings— “Tis midnight, and St. Clement’s chime Counts the wicked hours of crime.” He will hear no more. With hands raised to his head, and pressed tight against his ears, he runs with all the strength and fleetness of fevered madness and despair. Away! away!—from street to street! Away from his guilty confederates—from the sound of St. Clement’s bells—from the ghostly look and the fearful singing. Away! if it were possible, from himself—away from the world! He had reached a street in the neighbourhood of the Park, when he came to a house where a juvenile party was just breaking up. Some little boys and girls, rather sleepy and weary, and well wrapped up against the night air, were being lifted into coaches; while others, a little older, were jumping in of their own accord, in a manner so fresh and vigorous, that one would have supposed they were going to a party instead of coming from one. In particular, there was one very fine boy, with a beautiful eye sparkling beneath a bold, open brow. He came dancing down the steps of the doorway, his pockets full of fruit, and a bright orange in his hand. He appeared to be thinking of one of the games he had played that evening, for he was singing to himself— “Oranges and Lemons! Say the bells of St. Clement’s;”