“Why, it was because she called you a—”      

       “If she did, you pert miss,” said Shum, looking mighty dignitified, “I could correct her, and not you.”      

       “You correct me, indeed!” said Miss Betsy, turning up her nose, if possible, higher than before; “I should like to see you erect me! Imperence!” and they all began laffin again.     

       By this time Mrs. S. had recovered from the effex of her exsize, and she began to pour in HER wolly. Fust she called Mary names, then Shum.     

       “Oh, why,” screeched she, “why did I ever leave a genteel famly, where I ad every ellygance and lucksry, to marry a creatur like this? He is unfit to be called a man, he is unworthy to marry a gentlewoman; and as for that hussy, I disown her. Thank heaven she an't a Slamcoe; she is only fit to be a Shum!”      

       “That's true, mamma,” said all the gals; for their mother had taught them this pretty piece of manners, and they despised their father heartily:       indeed, I have always remarked that, in famlies where the wife is internally talking about the merits of her branch, the husband is       invariably a spooney.     

       Well, when she was exosted again, down she fell on the sofy, at her old trix—more screeching—more convulshuns: and she wouldn't stop, this time, till Shum had got her half a pint of her old remedy, from the       “Blue Lion” over the way. She grew more easy as she finished the gin; but Mary was sent out of the room, and told not to come back agin all day.     

       “Miss Mary,” says I,—for my heart yurned to the poor gal, as she came sobbing and miserable down stairs: “Miss Mary,” says I, “if I might make so bold, here's master's room empty, and I know where the cold bif and pickles is.” “Oh, Charles!” said she, nodding her head sadly, “I'm too retched to have any happytite.” And she flung herself on a chair, and began to cry fit to bust.     

       At this moment who should come in but my master. I had taken hold of Miss Mary's hand, somehow, and do believe I should have kist it, when, as I said, Haltamont made his appearance. “What's this?” cries he, lookin at me as black as thunder, or as Mr. Phillips as Hickit, in the new tragedy of MacBuff.     

       “It's only Miss Mary, 

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