“Nobody would mistake you for a lord,” said Miss Rose, cruelly. “Why, I shouldn’t think that you had ever seen one. You didn’t do it at all properly. Why, your uncle Cray would have done it better.” Mr. Cray’s nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed. All mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from joining in this. “I can’t understand,” said Miss Rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye—“I can’t understand how you could have thought I should be so stupid.” “I’ve been a fool,” said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the door. “Good-by.” “Good-by,” said Jane. She looked him full in the face, and the blushes for which she had been waiting came in force. “You needn’t go, unless you want to,” she said, softly. “I like fools better than lords.” [Illustration: “‘I like fools better than lords.’”] ALF’S DREAM [Illustration] ALF’S DREAM “I’ve just been drinking a man’s health,” said the night watchman, coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; “he’s come in for a matter of three ’undred and twenty pounds, and he stood me arf a pint—arf a pint!” He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface with his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river. “Four ale,” he said, with a hard laugh; “and when I asked ’im—just for the look of the thing, and to give ’im a hint—whether he’d ’ave another, he said ‘yes.’” The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty. “Money,” he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering himself carefully to the box again—“money always gets left to the wrong people; some of the kindest-’arted men I’ve ever known ’ave never had a ha’penny left ’em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot I’ve heard of ’ave come in for fortins.” It’s ’ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people’s money. I knew o’ one chap that waited over forty years for ’is grandmother to die and leave ’im her money; and she died of catching cold at ’is funeral. Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years for ’is rich aunt to die, was hung because she committed suicide. It’s always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you money. Sometimes they don’t die; sometimes they marry agin; and sometimes they leave it to other people instead. Talking of marrying agin reminds me o’ something that ’appened to a young fellow I knew named Alf Simms. Being an orphan ’e was brought up by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. Alf used to go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle ’aving quite a tidy bit of ’ouse property, and it being understood that Alf was to have it arter he ’ad gone. His uncle used to like to ’ave him at ’ome, and Alf didn’t like work, so it suited both parties.