Ay; the shop and Mary!--ambition and love! Ever since he had dealt tea and sugar in Mr. Smith's establishment, Richard Jones had been haunted with the desire to become a tradesman, and do the same thing in a shop of his own. But, conscious of the extravagant futility of this wish, Jones generally consoled himself with the thought that grocer's shops were as thick as mushrooms, and that, capital or no capital, there was no room for him. And now, as he walked home, dreaming, he could not but sigh, for there was room, he could not doubt it--but where was the capital? He was still vaguely wondering in his own mind, by what magical process the said capital could possibly be called up, when he reached his own home. There he found that, in his absence, a rudely scrawled scrap of paper had been slipped under his room door; it was to the following purport: "Dear J., "Als up; farm broke. Weral inn for it. "Yours, "S. S." This laconic epistle signified that the firm in whose warehouse Richard Jones was employed, had stopped payment Rich men lost their thousands, and eat none the worse a dinner; Richard Jones lost his week's wages, his future employment, and remained stunned with the magnitude of the blow. His first thought flew to his child. "How shall I pay Miss Gray for my little Mary's keep?" he exclaimed, inwardly. He cast his look round the room to see what he could pledge or sell. Alas! there was little enough there. His next feeling was, "My darling must know nothing about it Thank God, she is not with me now! Thank God!" But, though this was some sort of comfort, the future still looked so dark and threatening, that Jones spent a sleepless night, tossing in his bed, and groaning so loudly, that his landlady forsook her couch to knock at his door, and inquire, to his infinite confusion, "if Mr. Jones felt poorly, and if there was anything she could do for him, and if he would like some hot ginger?" To which Mr. Jones replied, with thanks, "that he was quite well, much obliged to her all the same." After this significant hint, he managed to keep quiet. Towards morning, he fell asleep, and dreamed he had found a purse full of guineas, and that he was going to open a grocer's shop, to be called the Teapot. Richard Jones was sober, intelligent enough for what he had to do, and not too intelligent--which is a great disadvantage; he bore an excellent character; and yet, somehow or other, when he searched for employment, there seemed to be no zoom for him; and had he been a philosopher, which, most fortunately for his peace of mind, he was not, he must inevitably hare come to the conclusion, that in this world he was not wanted.