head--all were, if anything, of a more vivid and brilliant green. Despair came over him. What had all his past troubles been to this?--what was to become of him? He got into bed again, and burst into a perspiration. Two or three times he got into and out of bed, to look at himself--on each occasion deriving only more terrible confirmation than before, of the disaster which had befallen him. After lying still for some minutes, he got out of bed, and kneeling down, tried to say his prayers; but it was in vain--and he rose half choked. It was plain he must have his head shaved, and wear a wig, which would be making an old man of him at once. Getting more and more disturbed in his mind, he dressed himself, half determined on starting off to Bond Street, and breaking every pane of glass in the shop window of the infernal impostor who had sold him the liquid which had so frightfully disfigured him. As he stood thus irresolute, he heard the step of Mrs. Squallop approaching his door, and recollected that he had ordered her to bring up his tea-kettle about that time. Having no time to take his clothes off, he thought the best thing he could do, would be, to pop into bed again, draw his nightcap down to his ears and eyebrows, pretend to be asleep, and, turning his back towards the door, have a chance of escaping the observation of his landlady. No sooner thought of, than done. Into bed he jumped, and drew the clothes over him--not aware, however, that in his hurry he had left his legs, with boots and trousers on, exposed to view--an unusual spectacle to his landlady, who had, in fact, scarcely ever known him in bed at so late an hour before. He lay as still as a mouse. Mrs. Squallop, after glancing with surprise at his legs, happening to direct her eyes towards the window, beheld a small bottle standing there--only half of whose dark contents were remaining. Oh gracious!--of course it must be POISON, and Mr. Titmouse must be dead!--In a sudden fright she dropped the kettle, plucked the clothes off the trembling Titmouse, and cried out--"Oh, Mr. Titmouse! Mr. Titmouse! what _have_ you been"---- "Well, ma'am, what the devil do you mean? How dare you"---- commenced Titmouse, suddenly sitting up, and looking furiously at Mrs. Squallop. An inconceivably strange and horrid figure he looked. He had all his day clothes on; a white cotton nightcap was drawn down to his very eyes, like a man going to be hanged; his face was very pale, and his whiskers were of a bright green color.