An excuse for the change of residence had been afforded in the fact that Soho was too far from the parks, in which alone Mrs. Coe took pleasure in walking.  She was quite unaccustomed to town life, and the roar and tumult of the streets annoyed and even alarmed her.  In some respects, indeed, she was even a more nervous, timid creature than she had been as a girl; the warning just received from Mrs. Yorke had not fallen upon her altogether unexpectedly, though she could not have been said to be prepared for it.  A vague apprehension of Richard’s vengeance had haunted her whole married life; she did not fear for her own safety; something told her that his anger would scorn to harm herself; that it would pass over her head like a flaming sword, and smite her husband and her boy; and as face after face passed by her in the crowded street, she would shrink and tremble, thinking that that of Richard Yorke would come one day, and recognize her own, and track it home.  Was he not fated to work their common ruin?  Did not the spectre ship cross Turlock Sands before she met his face for the first time?  Though so mature in years, Harry was indeed as superstitious as ever.  A curious instance of this occurred on the day that the Coes moved into their new lodgings.  The mother and son had arrived first—­Solomon being engaged in the City until evening—­and Charley had strolled into the ground-floor parlor, while the landlady (whom he had not yet seen) was engaged with his mother up stairs in the distribution of the luggage.  Above the chimney-piece hung that striking if not attractive portrait of Joanna Southcott and her amanuensis, with which we are already acquainted; and it tickled the young man’s fancy amazingly.  He concluded it was a family group—­the likeness, perhaps, of Mrs. Basil and her late husband engaged in making out their weekly accounts.  “I will beg Agnes not to be jealous of our charming landlady,” thought he, and took out his note-book with the intention of transferring the likeness for that young lady’s amusement.  While engaged in this occupation the door opened, and in stepped Mrs. Basil and her new tenant.  In his alarm and haste he stepped back suddenly, and overthrew a little table, on which were some ornaments, he knew not what, which rolled to his mother’s feet.  She uttered a cry of horror; and the landlady herself stood still, regarding him with a face of astonishment, and even terror.

“Is that—­your—­son?” exclaimed she, clutching his mother by the arm.

But Mrs. Coe did not seem to hear her.

“Look, look!” cried she; “the skull, the skull!  Oh, is it not a frightful omen!”

“I am really very sorry,” said Charley, picking up the article in question; “it was very stupid of me, Mrs. Basil.”

“Don’t mention it, young Sir,” said the landlady, who had apparently recovered from her sudden tremor; “the skull is no worse for its roll, you see; he was fortunately a hard-headed gentleman who originally owned it.”