“Poor little fellow! he's sleeping it out well. They certainly don't take overmuch care of him, or they'd never have sent him on the top of a coach in weather like this, without even a greatcoat to cover him. I say, Tom, my lad, wake up; you're not far from home now. Are you dreaming of the plum-pudding and the pony and the big spaniel, eh?” “Whisht!” said the guard, in a low whisper. “The chap's father is dying, and they've sent for him from school to see him.” A loud blast of the horn now awoke me thoroughly from the half-dreamy slumber in which I had listened to the previous dialogue, and I sat up and looked about me. Yes, reader, my unworthy self it was who was then indulging in as pleasant a dream of home and holidays as ever blessed even a schoolboy's vigils. Though my eyes were open, it was some minutes before I could rally myself to understand where I was, and with what object. My senses were blunted by cold, and my drenched limbs were cramped and stiffened; for the worthy captain, to whose humanity I owed the share of his cloak, had only joined the coach late in the day, and during the whole morning I had been exposed to the most pitiless downpour of rain and sleet. “Here you are!” said the rough guard, as the coach drew up to let me down. “No need of blowing the horn here, I suppose?” This was said in allusion to the miserable appearance of the ruined cabin that figured as my father's gate lodge, where some naked children were seen standing before the door, looking with astonishment at the coach and passengers. “Well, good-by, my little man. I hope you 'll find the governor better. Give him my respects; and, hark ye, if ever you come over to Athlone, don't forget to come and see me: Captain Bubbleton,--George Frederick Augustus Bubbleton, Forty-fifth Regiment; or, when at home, Little Bubbleton, Herts, and Bungalow Hut, in the Carnatic^ that's the mark. So good-by! good-by!” I waved my hand to him in adieu, and then turned to enter the gate. “Well, Freney,” said I, to a half-dressed, wild-looking figure that rushed out to lift the gate open,--for the hinges had been long broken, and it was attached to the pier by some yards of strong rope,--“how is my father?” A gloomy nod and a discouraging sign with his open hand were the only reply. “Is there any hope?” said I, faintly. “Sorrow one of me knows; I dare n't go near the house. I was sarved with notice to quit a month ago, and they tell him I 'm gone. Oh vo, vo! what 's to become of us all!”