to do right. There is not—there may be—I really don’t see my way to what I want to say, but I must say it before we part—there is not any other young—” 

 “O no, Eddy! It’s generous of you to ask me; but no, no, no!” 

 They have come very near to the Cathedral windows, and at this moment the organ and the choir sound out sublimely. As they sit listening to the solemn swell, the confidence of last night rises in young Edwin Drood’s mind, and he thinks how unlike this music is to that discordance. 

 “I fancy I can distinguish Jack’s voice,” is his remark in a low tone in connection with the train of thought. 

 “Take me back at once, please,” urges his Affianced, quickly laying her light hand upon his wrist. “They will all be coming out directly; let us get away. O, what a resounding chord! But don’t let us stop to listen to it; let us get away!” 

 Her hurry is over as soon as they have passed out of the Close. They go arm-in-arm now, gravely and deliberately enough, along the old High-street, to the Nuns’ House. At the gate, the street being within sight empty, Edwin bends down his face to Rosebud’s. 

 She remonstrates, laughing, and is a childish schoolgirl again. 

 “Eddy, no! I’m too sticky to be kissed. But give me your hand, and I’ll blow a kiss into that.” 

 He does so. She breathes a light breath into it and asks, retaining it and looking into it:— 

 “Now say, what do you see?” 

 “See, Rosa?” 

 “Why, I thought you Egyptian boys could look into a hand and see all sorts of phantoms. Can’t you see a happy Future?” 

 For certain, neither of them sees a happy Present, as the gate opens and closes, and one goes in, and the other goes away. 

 

CHAPTER IV. MR. SAPSEA

 Accepting the Jackass as the type of self-sufficient stupidity and conceit—a custom, perhaps, like some few other customs, more conventional than fair—then the purest jackass in Cloisterham is Mr. Thomas Sapsea, Auctioneer. 

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