“What a little chap you were then!—when you came for my proofs for the _Museum_,” I remark. “I ain’t a very big one now, sir; but it ain’t the big ones that do the best work,” remarks the butler. “I remember Miss Prior saying that you were as old as she was.” “Hm! and I scarce came up to her—eh—elbow.” (Bedford had constantly to do battle with the aspirates. He conquered them, but you could see there was a struggle.) “And it was Miss Prior taught you to sing?” I say, looking him full in the face. He dropped his eyes—he could not bear my scrutiny. I knew the whole story now. “When Mrs. Lovel died at Naples, Miss Prior brought home the children, and you acted as courier to the whole party?” “Yes, sir,” says Bedford. “We had the carriage, and of course poor Mrs. L. was sent home by sea, and I brought home the young ones, and—and the rest of the family. I could say, _Avanti! avanti!_ to the Italian postilions, and ask for _des chevaux_ when we crossed the Halps—the Alps,—I beg your pardon, sir.” “And you used to see the party to their rooms at the inns, and call them up in the morning, and you had a blunderbuss in the rumble to shoot the robbers?” “Yes,” says Bedford. “And it was a pleasant time?” “Yes,” says Bedford, groaning, and hanging down his miserable head. “Oh, yes, it was a pleasant time.” He turned away; he stamped his foot; he gave a sort of imprecation; he pretended to look at some books, and dust them with a napkin which he carried. I saw the matter at once. “Poor Dick!” says I. “It’s the old—old story,” says Dick. “It’s you and the Hirish girl over again, sir. I’m only a servant, I know; but I’m a——. Confound it!” And here he stuck his fists into his eyes. “And this is the reason you allow old Mrs. Prior to steal the sherry and the sugar?” I ask. “How do you know that?—you remember how she prigged in Beak Street?” asks Bedford, fiercely. “I overheard you and her just before dinner,” I said. “You had better go and tell Lovel—have me turned out of the house. That’s the best thing that can be done,” cries Bedford again, fiercely, stamping his feet. “It is always my custom to do as much mischief as I possibly can, Dick Bedford,” I say, with fine irony. He seizes my hand. “No, you’re a trump—everybody knows that; beg pardon, sir; but you see I’m so—so—dash!—miserable, that I hardly know whether I’m walking on my head or my heels.” “You haven’t succeeded in touching her heart, then, my poor Dick?” I said.