forwarded one half of the sum he had realized, entreating him to take an opportunity of handing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the warmest assurances of his love and affection. He made no mention of the way in which he had employed himself; merely informing Newman that a letter addressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office, Portsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthy friend to write full particulars of the situation of his mother and sister, and an account of all the grand things that Ralph Nickleby had done for them since his departure from London.
"You are out of spirits," said Smike, on the night after the letter had been despatched.
"Not I!" rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession would have made the boy miserable all night; "I was thinking about my sister, Smike."
"Sister!"
"Aye."
"Is she like you?" inquired Smike.
"Why, so they say," replied Nicholas, laughing, "only a great deal handsomer."
"She must be very beautiful," said Smike, after thinking a little while with his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.
"Anybody who didn't know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say you were an accomplished courtier," said Nicholas.
"I don't even know what that is," replied Smike, shaking his head. "Shall I ever see your sister?"
"To be sure," cried Nicholas; "we shall all be together one of these days—when we are rich, Smike."
"How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be kind to you?" asked Smike, "I cannot make that out."
"Why, it is a long story," replied Nicholas, "and one you would have some difficulty in comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy—you understand what that is?"
"Oh, yes, I understand that," said Smike.
"Well, it is owing to him," returned Nicholas. "He is rich, and not so easily punished as your old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is a villain, and has done me wrong."
"Has he though ?" asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. "What is his name? Tell me his name."
"Ralph—Ralph Nickleby."
"Ralph Nickleby," repeated Smike. "Ralph. I'll get that name by heart."
He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock at the door disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it, Mr. Folair, the pantomimist, thrust in his head.
Mr. Folair's head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually high in the crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the present occasion he wore it very much on one side, with the back part forward in consequence of its being the least rusty; round
