Already five days had elapsed, and I had not as much as mooted the question to Mr.Blake, and probably all this time my uncle was calculating on the thing as concluded; but, with one hole in my head and some half-dozen in my heart, my memory was none of the best.
Snatching up the letter, therefore, I resolved to lose no more time, and proceeded at once to Mr.Blake's room, expecting that I should, as the event proved, find him engaged in the very laborious duty of making his toilet.
[Illustration: MR.

BLAKE'S DRESSING ROOM.] "Come in, Charley," said he, as I tapped gently at the door.

"It's only Charley, my darling.

Mrs.B.won't mind you." "Not the least in life," responded Mrs.B., disposing at the same time a pair of her husband's corduroys tippet fashion across her ample shoulders, which before were displayed in the plenitude and breadth of coloring we find in a Rubens.

"Sit down, Charley, and tell us what's the matter." As until this moment I was in perfect ignorance of the Adam-and-Eve-like simplicity in which the private economy of Mr.Blake's household was conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a mutual territory of dressing-room had not Mr.Blake's injunctions been issued somewhat like an order to remain.
"It's only a letter, sir," said I, stuttering, "from my uncle about the election.