Perhaps some of you girls may be attracted by the advertisements which seek for a depôt where some everyday article may be sold, and if you are in a position in which such a sale at home is possible you may, perhaps with a good deal of trouble, make a little money in that way. Such advertisements are far more _bonâ fide_, I expect, than £2 and upwards offered by certain firms to persons of either sex without hindrance to present occupation. To any girls about to have recourse to these, my advice would be like that of Albert Smith to those about to marry—“Don’t.” Just now the word competitions occupy many advertisements in the newspapers. I counted fourteen different addresses in one number. The amount offered in prizes is tempting, and those of my friends who have competed have found the promoters apparently fair dealing. But it is not easy to obtain a prize, and the shilling paid by each competitor is, I expect, the most important point to the advertiser. One other class of advertisement I am about to touch upon, viz., the fortune-telling ones. Seeing the penalties the advertisers lay themselves open to, it is wonderful that they appear at all. If any of you send your shilling in the hope of obtaining your horoscope or any revelation as to your future life, based on the information you furnish as to your height, colour of hair, eyes, and date of birth, even supposing you receive any reply at all, you will very surely have wasted your money. None of these folks know any more of your future than The Home Philosopher, and if I could tell the future, I should know what stocks were going to rise, and what horse will win the next Derby, and thereby make more money in a week than the fortune-tellers, if they had ten lives. Depend on it, if they could they would do the same. ARDERN HOLT. THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND; OR, THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. BY EMMA BREWER. CHAPTER V. In our last interview you saw me firmly and proudly established in my new home in Threadneedle[1]-street. By this move I became a parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks, whose church and burial-ground were quite close to my new house. It was but a small parish of ninety-two houses at the time of my entering it. The church was old, for mention is made of it as early as 1368. I cannot give you many particulars about it except that it was rebuilt or renovated in 1462, and that it was slightly injured by the Great Fire in 1666. It had a certain sort of melancholy interest for me, for it was the burial-place of many who had been my early friends, among others, the Houblon family. The living, which was in the gift of the bishops of London, was worth only £120 per annum; not a very rich one, you will say. To save returning to the subject of this parish again, I will tell you now how it is that at the present moment you see neither church nor churchyard, neither parish nor parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks.