But the mail is rattling along, to the music of the guard's horn and the quadrupedant sound of the horses, heedless alike of local verjuice and of London pride. Not yet had it been polished into the dashing Quicksilver, but it rattled along very respectably, contented with itself, and despising the heavy Subscription. Poor thing!--its vanity has been severely punished. Needless it is to dwell on the incidents of the journey. Long and wearisome it was, and glad were the orphans when the wheels had made their last turn, and they alighted about daybreak in the yard of the old Bull and Mouth, St. Martin's-le-Grand. Slumber soon brought oblivion both of care and fatigue. When Randolph, leaving his chamber near noon, was shown into a sitting-room, he found Helen already there. She was looking out of the old-fashioned window, the heavy wood-work of which might remind her of farm-houses in her own country. Traffic was in full vigour in the street below, and the noise and hurry so confused her, that she was not aware of her brother's approach until he stood by her side. "Welcome to London, Miss Helen Morton," he said, becoming in turn amazed at the scene beneath his eyes. They breakfasted with considerable gaiety in the excitement of their new situation; and then Randolph started to discover Mr. Winter's offices in Lincoln's Inn; while his sister sat down to write Polydore an account of their safe arrival at their journey's end. Griffith had already written to the attorney, requesting his services on behalf of the son of an old friend, recently deceased. Mr. Morton, he said, possessed a small competence, and was desirous of proceeding to the bar. He would be in town with his only sister in a few days, and any kindness which Mr. Winter could show them would confer a great favour upon his correspondent. Winter has been spoken of by the chaplain as an impersonation of prudence. The description was just; but it was a prudence untainted by the slightest selfishness. He was a man of a large, liberal, and honourable nature, without a trace of the narrow-mindedness so often and so erroneously thought inseparable from his profession; he was so genial, withal, in his temper, that his friends used to quote him as a notable example of the rule, that surnames go by contraries. Spring, they would say, was the proper season for Winter, and Winter was proper for all seasons. Happy were they, privileged in July to sip his claret in the arbour of his garden at Hampstead--there was a touch of the Cockney about him--and in December to quaff his old port in his sanctum within-doors: hours never grudged by Mrs. Winter, who was as cheerful as her spouse.