“There’s one who won’t prove patient, I guess,” replied Bardon inwardly chuckling at the joke. His mind was so full of his errand that, though the road was extremely dusty, and the sun shot down fervid rays, Bardon was scarcely conscious either of discomfort or fatigue. He walked on as briskly as if the frost of December braced his nerves and rendered rapid motion necessary. Bardon was glad, however, when his journey drew near its end, and he reached the High Street of Pelton, with its rows of tidy shops, to one of which—the library—he now bent his eager steps. He glanced rapidly over the window in hopes to recognise the well-known cover of the —— Magazine amongst prints, envelopes, and daily papers; it was not, however, to be seen, and Bardon entered the library. There was at first no one sufficiently disengaged to be able to attend to the doctor, and Bardon had to wait with what patience he could muster, taking off his hat, and wiping his heated forehead, and looking around him, but in vain, for the Number which he had walked so far to see. “Warm morning, sir,” said the librarian, turning to the doctor at last, as a party of customers quitted the shop. “The last Number of the —— Magazine!” cried Bardon, waving superfluous comment on the weather, and flinging down a coin on the counter. “Well, sir,” said the shopkeeper with a smile, “if you had called but five minutes ago I could have accommodated you with a copy; but there’s been such a run on the Magazine to-day, that really I have not one left. You see, sir,” he added, “there’s an article in it that takes with the public amazingly,—something that’s said to be a hit on one of the leading men in the county; and,” here he lowered his voice, “people who are wiser than their neighbours think that they’ve a pretty good guess as to the pen that wrote it. Anything else this morning, sir?” Bardon uttered his emphatic “No!” and hurried out of the shop. “She’s done it!” he muttered to himself; “I’d give anything to see her paper!” CHAPTER XVIII. THE MAGAZINE. “We must have satire, pungent, biting satire; Such is the vile condition of our nature. Such our depraved and vicious appetites, No other food will suit our palsied taste.” CAMOENS, BY H. S. G. TUCKER. At the corner of the street a baker’s boy and a gentleman’s page were standing together, laughing at something which the latter held in his hand, and which his companion was perusing over his shoulder. “Now, ain’t that good?” exclaimed he of the bread-basket, showing his teeth from ear to ear. Bardon caught a glimpse of what they were reading. “My lads,” he cried, “I’ll pay you for that; give the magazine to me,” and he held out the price for the Number. “It’s my master’s,” said the page, as if awakened to a sudden sense of the responsibility connected with green cloth and gilt buttons; and rolling up the coveted Number, he hurried on his way to make up for the time which he had lost.