On a fine summer's evening, at the door of one of these large antiquated houses, sat Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, the aged widow of Barachiah Thrumpkinson, cordwainer, deceased. Her husband, who had been long dead, was a thrifty man at his trade, and had, by habits of strict industry and parsimony,--holpen therein by the like disposition of his beloved Deborah,--contrived to store a good corner of his double-locked oaken chest with spade-ace guineas. Deborah had acquired sufficient skill in the "art and mystery" of her husband's employment to be able to carry on his trade after his death; and, with the assistance of two stout apprentices, and as many journeymen, was, at the season in which our narrative begins, conducting the best business in that line within a circuit of several miles. We have hinted that Dame Deborah began to be stricken in years: nevertheless, the labours of "the gentle craft" gave little fatigue to her elastic mind and strong sinewy frame; and as she sat in the old-fashioned oaken chair, enjoying rest, and inhaling the soft breeze, after a day of healthful toil, she neither stooped through infirmity, nor experienced dimness of vision, though sixty winters had gone over her head. The short pipe in her mouth proved that she had discovered an effectual, though unfeminine, solace for a weary frame; and although, through the flitting volumes of smoke, you saw that their frequent visitings had left on the dame's cheek a deeper shade than years only would have imprinted there,--yet, a nearer gaze would have convinced you that, in youth, no contemptible degree of comeliness had been commingled with her strength. With the calmness derived from experienced age, and from a consciousness of honest independence,--thus, then, sat the grave Deborah, receiving, now and then, a mark of respect from the slow, worn labourers of either sex, as they passed homeward, with fork or rake on shoulder, from the hay-field. The dame had just knocked the ashes out of the head of her pipe, and was about to retire within her dwelling for the night, when her attention was strongly attracted by the conversation of a group which was suddenly formed but a few yards from her threshold. A pale, melancholy-looking woman, with a very little boy clinging to her blue linen apron, was met by a master chimney-sweep, followed by a couple of wretched-looking urchins bowed beneath enormous bags of soot. "Well, mistress," said the man, in a voice so harsh that it grated sorely on the ears of Dame Deborah, who would have been offended with the words of the speaker, even if they had been uttered in the softest accents, "you may as well take the fasten-penny I offered you the other day, and let me have this lad o' yours." The child clung more closely to his mother, and looked imploringly and pitifully in her face.