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Bale's story graphically depicted, like a man without a home; the "citizens of the world," who voluntarily expatriate themselves, miss much of the tang of life that is tasted by him who keeps his local attachments and national loyalty.

Lady Walsingham went up with her sister Mary, and having seen her in her room, and spoken again to her in the same cheery tone in which she had lectured her sister Lady Mardykes, she went on; and having taken possession of her own room, and put off her cloaks and shawls, she was going downstairs again, when she heard Sir Bale's voice, as he approached along the gallery, issuing orders to a servant, as it seemed, exactly in his usual tone.

"Now, Janet darling, you are yourself low and nervous, and you treat this fancy of Bale's as seriously as he does himself. The truth is, he is a hypochondriac, as the doctors say; and you will find that I am right; he will be quite well in the morning, and I daresay a little ashamed of himself for having frightened his poor little wife as he has. I will sit up with you.

Where will Sir Bale find so unresisting and respectful a butt and retainer? and whom will he bully now? Something like remorse was worrying Sir Bale's heart a little; and the more he thought on the strange visit of Hugh Creswell that night, with its unexplained menace, the more uneasy he became.

About this time Oswald Tarleton was sent for by his chief, and informed that he had been selected for the secretaryship of Sir Matthew Bale's committee. "This is a very weighty committee, Mr. Tarleton," said the permanent secretary of the department.

"Now, you promise to keep all secrets respecting the teller and the finder, be that who it may?" "Yes, I promise," said Sir Bale. "Now do as I do," said Feltram. And he shed the water on the ground, and with his wet fingers touched his forehead and his breast; and then he joined his hand with Sir Bale's, and said, "Now you are my safe man." Sir Bale laughed.

The priest was half way through his second Paternoster. His trembling tongue was stumbling, lagging more and more. As he ended it the two men still standing hand in hand Colonel John gripped Bale's fingers hard, but held him. "What is that?" he cried, in a loud voice but still he held Bale tight that he might not move. "What is that?" he repeated.

Good Doctor Torvey, therefore, reported only that Sir Bale's delirium had left two or three illusions sticking in his memory. But if they were illusions, they survived the event of his recovery, and remained impressed on his memory with the sharpness of very recent and accurately observed fact.

The press, a skeleton structure nearby, had in the center a stout wooden box whose interior length and width determined the height and thickness of the bales but whose depth was more than twice as great as the intended bale's width.

Why, that seer was worth the philosopher's stone, and could make Sir Bale's fortune in a season. Some one else would be sure to pick him up if he did not. So, tired of waiting for Feltram to begin, he opened the subject one day himself.