they’re well purchased by tomorrow’s reckoning.” And he poured from the bottle a generous measure of the _elixir mortis_, puffed his pipe to a vigorous glow, and with a sigh of something like content, set himself to the reading of his well-thumbed “Omar Khayyam.” “Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears— _To-morrow?_ Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand years” “Good old Omar,” the reader mutters, as he drains his goblet, and replenishes it from bottle and jug, “good old Omar, thine is the only true philosophy. _Carpe diem_, pluck the passing hour, let us eat and drink for to-morrow we may die, and who cares? “Into this Universe, and why not knowing, Nor _whence_, like Water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not _whither_, willy-nilly blowing. What, without asking, hither hurried _whence?_ And, without asking, whither hurried _hence!_ Another and another Cup to drown The Memory of this Impertinence.” “Now, talk of Impertinence, who the deuce is this coming up my stairs at this hour of the night, and such a night? It can’t be the printer’s devil, besides, the step’s a man’s at that. If his thirst’s as big as himself, God help the bottle or what’s left of it. Oh! come in, whoever you are, and be hanged to you!” and in response to this not very pressing invitation the door opens, and in the doorway stands, peering into the room, dazzled in the transition from the gloomy staircase, a tall, erect figure, closely draped in a heavy Inverness cape, sodden with the rain. “It is Mr. Beaumont, is it not?” asks a manly, pleasant voice. “Why, of course it is, now I can see you. How are you, Beaumont?” and a white but strong firm hand is outstretched and grasps the hand that not too gladly meets it. “Denis Caird, by all that’s holy!” “Of course, it’s Denis Caird, and glad to see you, Beaumont. Been hunting for you everywhere this month or two back. Was up in the West Riding lecturing, inquired about my old pupil we all prophesied such great things from, expected to find you in the Mayor’s parlour at least, till such times as you could follow Chamberlain’s lead heard you’d gone under, been seen in London, made up my mind to find you by hook or crook, and here I am and there you are. I say, what’s this, and this?” And the speaker, who had thrown off his cape, took up the little volume of verse, glanced at the title, and shook his head at the tall bottle. “‘Omar Khayyam’ and a whiskey bottle; bad food for mind, worse food for the body, my friend; the apostle of self-indulgence, and the worst, or nearly the worst, way to gratify it. This won’t do, Beaumont; this won’t do, my lad.” Edward moved uneasily in his chair. “_Dulce est_” he began. “_Dulce est_ be hanged,” quoth his visitor.