Johnson could be just as well told to her. Would the lady be good enough to step into the inner office

For half a second,' insinuated the foxy one in a parenthesis.

Mrs. Johnson cried afresh, and begged they would let her go home. She was sure there was some mistake. She was so sorry she had intruded.

The lady in the moire antique, and the big watch-chain, aided by the foxylooking clerk, however, managed to get our poor little friend in through that door marked 'Private.'

If Mrs. Johnson had been struck by the unexpected elegance with which the outer office was furnished, she was positively bewildered by the profusion she now witnessed in the little room in which she found herself closeted with this unknown lady. Pictures not only covered every available portion of the walls, but were piled in heaps upon the floor all round the room. Odd trinkets, knick-knacks, silver plate, and articles of vertu were heaped upon side tables, until the whole place looked like a broker's warehouse. There was, in fact, only just space to walk among the accumulated valuables to the small writing table which occupied the centre of the apartment, and which had two chairs placed, one at each side of it. To one of these chairs the strange dashing lady motioned Mrs. Johnson, while she sat herself upon the other. And on the table by the chair where the strange lady sat there was some Berlin wool work (of an unusually large and glaring pattern), which she had obviously just laid down. Behind her chair her bonnet and shawl were hanging against the wall.

Now, madam,' she commenced, as soon as they were alone, May I inquire what your business is with Mr. Johnson?'

'Oh, I am sure it's all some terrible mistake,' sobbed out Mrs. Johnson. 'It was so silly of me to come-when he always begged me never to intrude upon him at his office.'

'Did he, indeed!' replied the other. And may I ask the nature of your acquaintance with Mr. Johnson?'

Acquaintance!' she exclaimed in astonishment, (she forgot for the moment she had declined to give her name). Acquaintance! I am his wife !'

'His what?'

'His wife.' She had shaken off her weeping deprecatory manner now, aroused by an expression on her companion's face, of something very like cont mpt. And now the little woman asserted herself bravely.

'So!' cried the magnificent one, it is you, is it, with your mincing wax-doll face, that has been the cause of his neglecting me as he has done!'

'Neglecting you! What do you mean, madam? I repeat, I am Mrs. Johnson.'

'Pooh!' exclaimed the other. 'Don't talk to me. I have found you at last. I knew I should. And so Mr. Johnson forbade you coming here, did he? He knew that I should be here to meet you if you did come. And you have disobeyed him at last. Well, madam, I am

"Tis false,' cried Mrs. Johnson.

Is it?' retorted her gorgeously attired companion, as she pressed down the knob of a spring-bell which stood close at her hand.

We should be sorry to accuse the foxy-looking clerk of having been listening at the key hole; but he certainly could not have answered the summons of that bell more rapidly, if he had had his hand upon the lock already. On this occasion his own estimate of the amount of time required for various actions was strictly true. It was literally not more than half a second from the bell striking to his entering the room.

'Skillet,' said his mistress, addressing the foxy-looking one-request the housekeeper to step down to me.'

Mr. Skillet-for such it seemed was the name of the red-headed clerk-disappeared in about the space of time he was so prone to talk about.

The two rival claimants to the title of Mrs. Johnson stood eyeing one another, each with an expression of fierce disdain-although on the part of her whom for distinction we must call our Mrs. Johnson, the disdain was of a tearful, alarmed, wondering kind; while on the other Mrs. Johnson's face it was haughty, triumphant, and contemptu

ous.

Mr. Skillet soon returned accompanied by the housekeeper, whom he had fetched from her secluded dwelling in the attics. She was dressed in a gown of rusty black merino, and wore a widow's cap which had evidently seen better days. In manner, she was grave and sedate, as befitted one for whom the bustle and turmoil of life was over, and who had long since settled down re

Which certainly you are, mum,' responded the housekeeper. Leastways, I can't say as I've seen your marriagelines. But since you've been in the habit of coming here every day, your good gentleman has always spoke of you to me as his good lady.'

'She comes here daily!' cried our Mrs. Johnson in dismay.

'Which I hope, mum,' remarked the housekeeper, turning to her, I hope you won't be coming here to disturb the gentlemen as has the other offices, with anything like what I may call obstropulousness. They've always been kept respectable-these offices have.'

The other offices!' cried our Mrs. Johnson-a ray of hope seeming for a moment to illuminate the dark mystery. Tell me, is it possible, there is some other Mr. Johnson, having an office in these premises?'

'None, mum,' replied the housekeeper. Leastways, there hasn't been since I've had care of the place, which is five years come Lady Day.'

And this is No. 56?' asked our Mrs. Jolinson.

This, mum, is No. 56!'

And there is no other of the name,' interposed the other-the sumptuously attired Mrs. Johnson, than my husband.'

'None, mum. Leastways, unless the party as has just taken the office on the first floor answers to the name. But they don't take possession till the day after to-morrow, and they hasn't got their name writ up as yet. So you see there's no knowing.'

But this was quite enough for our Mrs. Johnson. Her Johnson was neither one of an extinct genus of the ante-present-housekeeper period, nor a new tenant to come in in the future. He was located there now. And in his office-the office of the only Johnson on the premises she had found a woman who not only claimed herself to be, but was acknowledged by the respectble widow who had charge of the establishment, to be Mrs. Johnson!

This then was the reason why he had forbidden her coming to his City office. Office, did she say? Rather a sump

tuous boudoir, in which he spent his days in the society of this gorgeous female, leaving his lawful wife to slave at home in poverty.

The gorgeous female smiled in wicked triumph on the unhappy little woman, and asked her whether she was satisfied, or whether she would like to wait till Mr. Johnson came?

Oh, no, no; not for the world!' cried the poor little wife. No earthly consideration should induce me to remain in this dreadful place, or ever to darken its doors again. But you may tell Johnson, if you see him-as I have no doubt you will-that-that-that I could never have believed it of him!'

And bursting afresh into tears, she made a most undignified retreat from that sumptuously furnished apartment, and hurried rapidly down the stairs.

Skillet,' said the gorgeous one, directly she had gone, follow that person, and bring me word where she goes to.'

Skillet of the foxy aspect, snatched up his hat, and followed in pursuit, with an unquestionig alacrity which seemed to imply that he was not unaccustomed to such or similar errands.

Johnson did not appear that evening at his usual time and place in that highly respectable hostelry at the corner of the street in which he lived. The other regular frequenters of the place thought it was strange-extremely strange! He who was as punctual as the clock itself in his time of coming and quitting them. Surely there must be something up!'

The baker from round the corner couldn't tell what to make of it.

The butcher from next door, looking very mysteriously at the others across the bowl of his pipe, declared his belief that he could tell 'em summ'at as would astonish 'em a bit if he chose, only it was no business of his, and he didn't like interfering with his neighbours' affairs.

This affectation of an inclination to be secret, however, deceived no one. It was plain the butcher was bursting to tell all he knew. So it required very little pressing to get out of him that he had seen Mrs. Johnson, not more than a couple of hours since, get into a cab with a lot of boxes, and the baby with her; and though her veil was down, he was quite certain she was crying; and moreover, that the girl that was in the habit of coming daily to help in the work of the house was crying too, as she saw Mrs. Johnson to the cab; and by the way in which she bade

her mistress good-bye, he felt sure that lady was gone away for good and all.' What did they think of that, now?

Leaving the assembled gossips to make what they could out of the butcher's statement, we will avail ourselves of our privilege of taking a look into Johnson's home itself.

Johnson arrived home on that Christmas Eve at his usual time; in fact Johnson always did everything at his usual time. He came provided with a mysterious bottle in one of his coat pockets, and a paper bag containing half a dozen eggs in his hand-undoubted indications of Johnson's intention to celebrate the eve of Christmas with the orthodox flip.' Altogether, Johnson was in a merry genial mood, thoroughly fitted to the season.

The door was opened for him, not by his wife, as he expected, but by the apology for a housemaid, the girl before alluded to. This was strange, Johnson thought; but still more strange, he observed the girl was weeping-no, that is too weak a term, was absolutely blubbering; more strange even than this, she handed him, without speaking, a letter, in the superscription of which he recognised the handwriting of his wife. Strangest of all was what he found inside that letter :

You have deceived me. I know all. I have found out the real reason why you have always so positively prohibited my calling at your office in the City. I have gone to mamma at Brighton. It will be in vain for you to attempt to follow me. After your deceit, I will not see you.'

What could this mean? Even if she had discovered his very humble position (how she had found it out he could form no idea), still his deception in keeping it from her, for her own comfort's sake, was surely no such enormous crime. It certainly did not warrant such a remarkably strong measure of retaliation as this desertion of him. What should he do? Her letter said it was in vain for him to attempt to follow her to Brighton. Of that fact he was painfully aware already; for truth to tell, he had not about him at the moment sufficient ready money to enable him to do so, had he resolved upon that step (and railway companies will not, however urgent the occasion, give tickets upon credit). He could, no doubt, have borrowed the amount. But how could he tell any one his wife had left him-and for a cause so utterly absurd? How could he ever have the slightest claim to respectability hereafter, if it were known his home had

been made desolate because Mrs. Johnson had found out he was not a City merchant or speculator, but only a clerk at thirty shillings weekly wages?

Utterly bewildered as he was by the blow, so unexpected, so impossible to occur (as it would have seemed to him if prophesied), Johnson felt that there was literally nothing to be done. He immediately dismissed the girl from further attendance for the evening, sorrowfully laid aside the bottle and the bag of eggs he had provided for spending a jolly Christmas Eve, and went lonely, despairing, hopeless, joyless, and egg-flipless to bed.

The sun rose bright upon the Christmas morning; a sharp, clear, crisp, frosty morning; a Christmas of the good old sort; a truly English Christmas; and the church bells rang merrily in honour of the day. And everywhere friends meeting friends were wishing one another A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!'

But Johnson, rising from his troubled slumbers unrefreshed, felt nothing of these genial seasonable influences. The Christmas morning might be clear and crisp, and of the good old English sort. For Johnson it was only miserably cold. For him the church bells rang out discords harshly jangling out of tune. For him there was no friendly grasp of hand; no kindly wishes of the season. Nothing but solitude; dreary, cheerless, joyless solitude.

He came down stairs. The grates which should have been glowing with a Christmas blaze, were cold and black. The bottle and the bag of eggs standing where he had left them overnight seemed to reproach him with what Christmas Eve should have been. And what is this hideous compound that he finds in a basin covered with a cloth? A chaotic mass of an unwholesomelooking yellowish drab mixture; something that might be taken for some newinvented mortar, but for those darker coloured spots pervading it, which Johnson on investigation finds out to be raisins! Spirit of Christmas! is it possible? This unsightly mass turns out to be the uncooked pudding! The Christmas pudding! The magnum opus of the twelvemonth's cookery! delicious sphere about which cluster metaphorically all the year's loving domesticity, and prosaically all the toothsome anticipations of a good Christmas dinner. The Christmas pudding! so splendid in its appearance in due course upon the table! How loathsome does it look in uncooked deshabille!

The

Under existing circumstances we need hardly say that Johnson did not care to boil that pudding. The present age has witnessed the birth of many heresies, and abundant flying in the face of old beliefs and traditions. But we are happy to believe that cooking a Christmas pudding for oneself, to be guzzled in unsocial solitude would imply a degree of depravity at which the world has not yet arrived.

Still, however depressed and overwhelmed the mind, man must have food. So Johnson, having, after a good hour spent in trying to light a fire, and another hour in watching for the kettle's boiling, made himself a cup of wretchedly bad tea, took his solitary breakfast-after a fashion; washed up his single cup and saucer; and then sat down to think how he should spend the day-his Christmas Day!

There are some problems which resolve themselves; and it is quite possible to debate in our own mind how time should be disposed of, until we find the question answered for us and the time already spent. So it was nearly noon, and Johnson had not yet made up his mind what he should do upon his lonely Christmas Day, when he was startled by a cab drawing up to his door, and still more startled on seeing emerge from that cab a buxom, smiling, kindlylooking personage in whom he at once recognised Mrs. Johnson's mother. He was by no means so much startled after this, when, having rushed to the door and admitted his good mother-in law, another figure, that of his runaway wife, followed, with Baby in her arms.

Mrs Johnson seemed scarcely to dare look at her husband, as she followed her mother into the best parlour.

The old lady seated herself in a chair as though determined to make herself at home; and then, utterly regardless of Johnson's presence, proceeded to take off her bonnet; this done, she raised the skirt of her dress, and produced from some mysterious hiding place or other, a cap of such wondrously elaborate structure, that how it could have survived the railway journey without so much as being crushed appeared a downright mystery. She adjusted her cap before the chimney-glass, and then sat down again prepared for anything.

And now then,' said the old lady, looking across to where Johnson stood regarding her and his wife by turns with an odd, puzzled look. 'Now then, let us have it out. This silly girl of mine came home last night with an absurd story-I scarce know what-of

vour having some other lady-love concealed in the unknown regions of the City.'

I exclaimed Johnson, in astonish ment.

66

'Don't interrupt me,' continued the old lady. 'I said to the stupid child, 'Mary Jane, my dear, I don't believe it. But, right or wrong, I will take you back and see about it. To-morrow, my dear, is Christmas Day, when no wife should, under any circumstances, be away from her husband's home. "In fact," the old lady added by way of parenthesis, "if I were not myself a widow, I would not have come with her, even on this occasion." So we packed ourselves off by the first train this morning, and here we are.'

'Why, Mary Jane,' cried Johnson, as soon as the old lady allowed him a chance of getting in a word. What have you been dreaming about? I a lady-love in the City"!'

Then Mrs. Johnson told him all. Her disobeying his commands; her calling at his office; and her interview with the gorgeous female. All, precisely as we have already told the reader.

Eh! Then, by Jove!' cried Johnson, smiling in spite of himself, 'you've been to the office of old Johnson, the bill discounter, on the second floor. A pretty sort of Christmas he'll spend today! His wife's as jealous as a hippopotamus, and goes there daily to witness his interviews with his female clients.'

'What!' exclaimed Mrs. Johnson. much relieved. 'It was then not your office that I went to? Yet stay,' she added, they distinctly told me there was not another Johnson on the premises.'

'Nor is there,' replied her husband; and in this fact lies all with which I feel I have to reproach myself. While in that building I am no Johnson. Hear me, Mary Jane, and pardon my silly pride. When I met my recent pecuniary reverses, and had to put up with a very much inferior position, I did not likethat my name which had previously stood so well in the City should be degraded; so I'

Don't say you took another name,” interrupted his wife. It sounds so base-so like a swindler. Don't say you took another name.'

'I did not,' auswered Johnson, but instead, I dispensed with a portion of that which was mine by right; and the individual who was formerly known as Hamilton Johnson, Esq., became, when forced to accept the situation of clerk and messenger at a poor thirty-shilling