his pocket. "Postmark, Strand, black wax, black border, woman's hand, C. N. in the corner."
"Black wax?" said Mr. Nickleby, glancing at the letter. "I know something of that hand, too. Newman, I shouldn't be surprised if my brother were dead."
"I don't think you would," said Newman, quietly.
"Why not, sir ?" demanded Mr. Nickleby.
"You never are surprised," replied Newman, "that's all."
Mr. Nickleby snatched the letter from his assistant, and fixing a cold look upon him, opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having now hit the time to a second, began winding up his watch.
"It is as I expected, Newman," said Mr. Nickleby, while he was thus engaged. "He is dead. Dear me! Well, that's a sudden thing. I shouldn't have thought it, really." With these touching expressions of sorrow, Mr. Nickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on his gloves to a nicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowly westward with his hands behind him.
"Children alive?" inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.
"Why, that's the very thing," replied Mr. Nickleby, as though his thoughts were about them at that moment. "They are both alive."
"Both!" repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.
"And the widow, too," added Mr. Nickleby, "and all three in London, confound them; all three here, Newman."
Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously twisted as by a spasm; but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward laughter, nobody but himself could possibly explain. The expression of a man's face is commonly a help to his thoughts, or glossary on his speech; but the countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was a problem which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.
"Go home!" said Mr. Nickleby, after they had walked a few paces: looking round at the clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely uttered when Newman darted across
