'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that Egyptian woman bore the last--positively the last--remains of Margrave, or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?' 'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick. 'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters: 'FABER, No. 4.' I believe it may belong to one of my family--lost, perhaps, in the ocean of commerce.' 'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung; let us enter the house.' CHAPTER II. 'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us how that cold chicken should be carved.' Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket. Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was bustling around when the two doctors entered the room. 'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber. 'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and romantic dreams.' 'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs. Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken to filling her duties as housewife?' 'To be sure I do.' The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a brown one, remarking: 'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale--we are nearly out.' CHAPTER III. 'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap--on-ly thrippence a tab-let--takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.' 'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above. 'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin' soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben wurkin this lay long enough, I _ham_ thinkin'.