"Very strange indeed, and by no means agreeable," replied Charles; "but did Middleton tell you nothing at all about himself?"
The old gentleman laughed.
"Oh, yes," he said: "he told me many things; but the most important he would not tell, and so the rest was of little use. Now, Charles, I shall go to bed; for you know it is quite needful for a feeble old man like me, with a bad habit of getting wounded in the shoulder, to take care of himself."
"Which of course you never do," replied his young companion, smiling. "I shall not meet you at breakfast, however, sir, for I go early to Lady Anne's to see her off."
"Good, very good!" said Mr. Winkworth, and walked away into his bed-room, while Charles remained for a moment or two, with that strong inclination to think which often comes upon a man about midnight. He soon found, however, that thinking was a most fruitless occupation, and he too retired to rest.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
It is a most unfortunate and ever-to-be-lamented thing that the fairies have quitted England. How it happened I do not know, nor is the period of their departure exactly ascertained; but I cannot help thinking that it was about the time of the Great Rebellion, when the whole people of the country were so busy about other things that they had hardly time to eat their breakfasts, and none to knock holes in the bottoms of their egg-shells, so that the fairies had a fleet of little ships ready prepared for them to cross the Channel when they thought fit. Nor is it at all wonderful that they should choose that time for going, with the Fairy of Order at their head; for every one knows that the good little people are strongly averse to anarchy and confusion, and dissension of every kind; so that, when Oberon and Titania quarrel, I have it upon good authority, the whole of the royal train, except Puck, who stands by and laughs, hide themselves away under harebells and columbines, and only peep out with one eye to see when the storm has blown over.
However, certain it is that they are all gone--left our shores, I fear, for ever. Nothing can be done by magic now. The milk remains unchurned; and no more is seen before the fire,
Stretched at his length, the lubbard fiend.
All the business of the world goes on at a jog-trot, and that trot is very often a slow one.