Ah, my child! my child! my poor young creature! and you, too, have felt the infernal stroke. You, too, have passed the tossing nights of pain--have heard the dreary hours toll--have looked at the cheerless sunrise with your blank sleepless eyes--have woke out of dreams, mayhap in which the beloved was smiling on you, whispering love-words--oh! how sweet and fondly remembered! What!--your heart has been robbed, too, and your treasury is rifled and empty!--poor girl! And I looked in that sad face, and saw no grief there! You could do your little sweet endeavour to soothe my wounded heart, and I never saw yours was bleeding! Did you suffer more than I did, my poor little maid? I hope not. Are you so young, and is all the flower of life blighted for you? the cup without savour, the sun blotted, or almost invisible over your head? The truth came on me all at once: I felt ashamed that my own selfish grief should have made me blind to hers. “What!” said I, “my poor child. Was it...?” and I pointed with my finger _downwards_. She nodded her poor head. I knew it was the lodger who had taken the first floor shortly after Slumley’s departure. He was an officer in the Bombay Army. He had had the lodgings for three months. He had sailed for India shortly before I returned home from Dublin. Elizabeth is waiting all this time--shall she come in? No, not yet. I have still a little more to say about the Priors. You understand that she was no longer Miss Prior of Beak Street, and that mansion, even at the time of which I write, had been long handed over to other tenants. The captain dead, his widow with many tears pressed me to remain with her, and I did, never having been able to resist that kind of appeal. Her statements regarding her affairs were not strictly correct.--Are not women sometimes incorrect about money matters?--A landlord (not unjustly indignant) quickly handed over the mansion in Beak Street to other tenants. The Queen’s taxes swooped down on poor Mrs. Prior’s scanty furniture--on hers?--on mine likewise: on my neatly-bound college books, emblazoned with the effigy of Bonifacius, our patron, and of Bishop Budgeon, our founder; on my elegant Raphael Morghen prints, purchased in undergraduate days--(ye Powers! what _did_ make us boys go tick for fifteen-guinea proofs of Raphael, Dying Stags, Duke of Wellington Banquets, and the like?); my harmonium, at which SOME ONE has warbled songs of my composition--(I mean the words, artfully describing my passions, my hopes, or my despair); on my rich set of Bohemian glass, bought on the Zeil, Frankfort O. M.; on my picture of my father, the late Captain Batchelor (Hopner), R.N., in white ducks, and a telescope, pointing, of course, to a tempest, in the midst of which was a naval engagement; on my poor mother’s miniature, by old Adam Buck, in pencil and pink, with no waist to speak of at all; my tea and cream pots (bullion), with a hundred such fond knicknacks as decorate the chamber of a lonely man.