He had got a lodger at last, of just his own way of thinking--a serious, well-disposed man, who abhorred gaiety, and loved retirement.

He took down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers.
The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive from the country next morning.

He borrowed a clean shirt, and a prayer-book, from our next-door neighbour, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting that he might be called punctually at ten o'clock next morning--not before, as he was much fatigued.
He _was_ called, and did not answer: he was called again, but there was no reply.

Our next-door neighbour became alarmed, and burst the door open.

The serious man had left the house mysteriously; carrying with him the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the bedclothes.
Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregularities of his former lodger, gave our next-door neighbour an aversion to single gentlemen, we know not; we only know that the next bill which made its appearance in the parlour window intimated generally, that there were furnished apartments to let on the first floor.