"Yes, if I _was_, as you express it, I should die in a week. If air could have killed me, the curious atmosphere of this charming court would have killed me long ago. I'm not one of those air-plants, ma'am. What I want is a little fillip, ma'am--a little amusement--anything out of this prison; and I'm not going to squat on a moor, or to roost in a wood, to please a pack of fellows that don't care if I were on the treadmill, provided they could take me out whenever they want me. My health, indeed! They simply want me out of the way. My health! Their consideration for me is truly affecting. We'll not mind the bitters, yet. It's time for my claret." He drank it, and seemed to doze for a little. Mrs. Rumble quickly settled the medicine bottles and other things that had been put out of their places, every now and then looking at the sunken face of the old man, in his death-like nap--his chin sunk on his breast, the stern carving of his massive forehead, the repulsive lines of a grim selfishness, and a certain evil shadow, made that face in its repose singularly unlovely. Suddenly he waked. "I say, Mrs. Rumble, I've been thinking--what about that old clergyman you mentioned--that Mr. Bartlett. I think I _will_ see him--suppose he lectures me; his hard words won't break my bones, and I think he'd amuse me; so you may as well get him in, any time--I don't care when." Sarah Rumble was only too glad to give her wicked tenant a chance, such as it was, and next day, at about one o'clock, a gentle-looking old clergyman, with thin white hair, knocked at his door, and was admitted. It was the Rev. Thomas Bartlett. "I can't rise, sir, to receive you--you'll excuse me; but I'm still very ill," said Mr. Dingwell. "Pray don't stir, sir," said the clergyman. "I _can't_," said Mr. Dingwell. "Will _you_ kindly sit in that chair, near the fire? What I have to say is private, and if you please we'll speak very low. My head isn't recovered yet." "Certainly," said the old gentleman, placing himself as Dingwell wished. "Thank you very much, sir. Now I can manage it. Isn't your name Thomas, sir--the Reverend Thomas Bartlett?" said Mr. Dingwell, looking at him shrewdly from under his white eyebrows. "That's my name, sir." "_My_ name's Dingwell. You don't remember? I'll try to bring it to your mind. About twenty-nine years ago you were one of the curates at St. Wyther's in the Fields?" "Yes, sir, I was," answered the clergyman, fixing his eyes in turn inquisitively on him. "I was the witness--do you remember me, now--to the ceremony, when that unfortunate fellow, Verney, married Miss--I have a note of her name--hang it!--Rebecca, was it?--_Yes, Rebecca_--it was Rebecca Mervyn. You married Verney to Miss Mervyn, and _I_ witnessed it."