laying such fervent stress upon the trust they had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest friendship: that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn't bear it. His heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the honest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no room that day, for anything but happiness and sympathy!
And there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner and turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his convivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. "Where is he!" said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told him that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint: and in the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him by the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in the fourth place, said, "How are you!" and in a great many other places did a great many other things to shew his friendliness and joy. And he sang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his wine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and, in short, he was a perfect Trump, was Fips, in all respects.
But ah! the happiness of strolling home at night—obstinate little Ruth, she wouldn't hear of riding!—as they had done on that dear night, from Furnival's Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to confide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all their little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as they spoke!
When they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and went upstairs into his' own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And Tom actually winked to himself, when he got upstairs: he thought it such a deep thing to have done.
"They like to be by themselves of course," said Tom; "and I came away so naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment, to return. That's capital!"
But he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.
"May I come in T said John.
"Oh, surely!" Tom replied.
"Don't leave us, Tom. Don't sit by yourself. We want to make you merry; not melancholy."
"My dear friend," said Tom, with a cheerful smile.
"Brother, Tom. Brother."
"My dear brother," said Tom; "there is no danger of my being melancholy. How can I be melancholy, when I know that you and Ruth are so blest in each other! I think I can find my tongue to-night, John," he added, after a moment's pause. "But I never can tell you what unutterable joy this day has given me. It would be unjust to you to speak of your having chosen a portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth; I am sure you know her worth. Nor will it diminish in your estimation, John; which money might."
"Which money would, Tom," he returned. "Her worth! Oh, who could see her here, and not love her. Who could know her, Tom, and not honour her. Who could ever stand possessed of such a heart as her's, and grow indifferent to the treasure. Who could feel the
