than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow."
How silent Tom Pinch was!
"In honour of old times," said Martin, "and of her having heard you play the organ in this damp little church down here—for nothing too—we will have one in the house, I shall build an architectural music-room on a plan of my own, and it 'll look rather knowing in a recess at one end. There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like to do so in the dark, it shall be dark; and many's the summer evening she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!"
It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch's part to leave the seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart, than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are either true or tuneful.
"It's a proof of the kindness of human nature," said Tom, characteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter, "that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate and affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were the most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to express, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust me," said Tom, "that I am not ungrateful—that I never forget—and that, if I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will."
"That's all right," observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a hand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. "Very fine talking, Tom; but I'm at Pecksniff's, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the high-road to fortune just at this minute. So you 've heard again this morning from what's his name, eh?"
"Who may that be?" asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf of the dignity of an absent person.
"You know. What is it? Northkey."
"Westlock," rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.
"Ah! to be sure," said Martin, "Westlock. I knew it was something connected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says Westlock?"
"Oh! he has come into his property," answered Tom, nodding his head, and smiling.
"He's a lucky dog," said Martin. "I wish it were mine instead. Is that all the mystery you were to tell me?"
"No," said Tom; "not all."
"What's the rest!" asked Martin.
For the matter of that," said Tom, "it's no mystery, and you won't think much of it; but it's very pleasant to me. John always used to say when he was here, 'Mark my words, Pinch. When my father's
