Two years passed, and never a syllable could I learn of BRIGGS. Then I met TROTTER of Trinity at Piccadilly Circus. "By the way," said he, "I suppose you have heard about poor old BRIGGS?" "No!" I cried. "What of him?" "Oh, I thought you would be sure to know, or I would have broken it to you more gently." "Why?" I asked, with apprehension. "Has anything happened to him?" "Well," he replied, with some hesitation, "I--er--I hardly like to tell you. You were such a friend of his." "You don't mean to say that he is----?" "Dead? No, poor fellow, not dead exactly, but worse than that, I fear. He has become a New Man, you see." I looked at TROTTER in bewilderment. "Why, you see, he is married--yes, he married the O'GRESS, you know. Poor BRIGGS! I saw him yesterday, and, upon my word, I should scarcely have known him. But go and see him yourself; you will never believe my story." TROTTER wrote me the address on a card, and the next day I called. The maid looked somewhat surprised when I asked for Mr. BRIGGS. He was at home, oh, yes, he was at home, but she didn't know whether he could see me or not, as he was feeding the baby. This announcement rather staggered me, but I pulled myself together sufficiently to assure her that I was an old friend of Mr. BRIGGS; and, on learning this, she asked me to walk upstairs. "This is the nursery," she said, when we had reached the topmost storey. "You will find Mr. BRIGGS inside." I opened the door, and what a scene greeted me! There was BRIGGS, my old friend BRIGGS, the gallant BRIGGS of Balliol, rocking ceaselessly to and fro the while he crooned in a low monotone to a bundle of pins and flannel that lay cradled in his arms. I sprang forward to grip him by the hand. He laid his finger on his lips, and in an agonised whisper murmured, "Sh!--You'll wake the baby!" I controlled myself, and sank into a chair, to which he motioned me. BRIGGS hushed the infant anxiously for a minute or two until it was well asleep; then he turned to me, and with a sickly smile whispered, "I'm glad to see you, ROBINSON, but please talk very gently, for fear of waking the Cutsababoo." It grieved me to hear poor BRIGGS talk in this fashion, but there were a thousand questions I was burning to ask him.