had lately told her that I was Mr. Drystubble, coffee-broker, of the Laurier Canal. There is always a sort of insult in such a non-recognition; but as it was now not so cold, and as I wore last time I was there my coat trimmed with fur, I ascribed it to that, and think nothing of it—I mean the insult. I said therefore again that I was Mr. Drystubble, of the Laurier Canal, coffee-broker, and begged her to go and see if Shawlman was in, because I did not wish, as on the last occasion, to have to speak to his wife, who is always discontented. But the woman refused to go up-stairs. “She could not walk up and down stairs the whole day for that beggarly family,” said she, “but I could go and look for myself.” And then followed again a description of the staircase and doors, which I had no need of; for I always know a place where I have been once, because I pay such attention to everything. I have got accustomed to that in my business. So I went up-stairs, and knocked at the well-known door, which opened. I entered, and as I saw nobody in the room, I looked round. There was not much to be seen. A child’s trousers with an embroidered stripe hung over a chair—why need such people wear embroidered trousers?
In a corner stood a not very heavy travelling box, which I lifted up by the hinge, and on the mantel-piece there were some books, which I looked at. A curious collection! A couple of volumes of Byron, Horace, Bastiat, Béranger, and, . . . do guess! . . . a Bible, a complete Bible, with
