"’Tis worse than I thought," he said ruefully. "In some unconscionable fashion the bill mounts higher this week; I am ten shillings short without vails to the servants." "Ah, I know Lun’on folk, I do. But don’t let that trouble ’ee, sir; ten shillens won’t make a great hole in my store." "But I won’t have your money. Nay, Sherry, call it a whim of mine; ’tis our last day; the charges are mine; to-morrow we must start afresh. I have some trinkets in my box; their worth I know not; but you can take one or two to a goldsmith’s and place them with him until the luck turns. You will do that better than I." He left the room and came back with a miniature set in gold and a brooch of antique make. Sherebiah looked at them with a deliberative air. "Baubles like these sell for next to nowt," he said. "’Tis not all gold that glitters. But I’ll take ’em, sir, and cheapen ’em as best I may. Be I to pledge ’em in my name or yours?" "It doesn’t matter—whichever you like. I’ll sit by the fire and read while you are gone." "Ay, ’tis a raw and nippen afternoon, and there be true comfort in a log fire." He flung his cloak over his shoulders and was gone. Harry went to his room and brought down a volume of his father’s containing Mr. John Milton’s poem of "Samson Agonistes". In the dark afternoon he read for some time by the light of the fire, finding a certain melancholy pleasure in fitting Samson’s woeful laments to his own case. "So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat", he murmured, and then closed the book over his finger and gazed into the ruddy cavern of the fire till his eyes ached. Sherebiah seemed a long time gone; a feeling of restlessness stole upon Harry. He let the book fall from his hand, rose, and paced about the room, stopping once or twice at the narrow window to look out into the street. The air was misty, the pavement sticky with mud; every passing horse stepped under a blanket of vapour; the wayfarers were muffled about their necks and walked as though bent under a load. Harry fidgeted, wondering why Sherebiah was so long. His reading had not cheered him; his musing did but increase his gloom. At last, unable to endure inaction longer, he put on his cloak and hat, took up the cudgel without which, in deference to Sherebiah’s advice, he seldom went abroad, and sallied forth into the street, to walk off his fit of the dumps, if that might be. By the flickering light above the door he saw three sailors lurching up the street. He passed them, giving them but a casual glance, turned into the Strand, and spent some time looking listlessly into the lighted shops. At the door of a coffee-house he noticed a group gathered about a newspaper pasted on the wall. A manuscript supplement had just been affixed to it. When he could get near enough to see the writing, he felt a momentary interest in the announcement he read.