▪pen my mouth, goodness knows!

VALL

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted utton, you must almost swear the roof off the house u didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know at you do when you're in a passion. You wer in a passion, wern't you? Well, then I don' ow what a passion is; and I think I ought to by s time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr adle, to know that.

t's a pity you haven't something worse to complain than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives I would, I know. I'm sure `I'm never without dle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And at's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a but "s off your shirt-what do you say "ah" at? ]

once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, a st. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the -ld are better looked after than yours. I only h I'd kept the shirts you had when you were firs rried! I should like to know where were your tons then?

es, it is worth talking of! But that's how you ays try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and n, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me it's how you men always will have all the talk to rselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose 's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha poor women only knew what they had to g ough! What with buttons, and one thing and aner! They'd never tie themselves to the best mar the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr

the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, you might have something to talk about. Oh, re aggravating enough, when you like, for anyg! All I know is, it's very odd button the on should be off my shirt; for I'm sure no an's a greater slave to her husbands buttons than 1. I only say it's very odd.

owever, there's one comfort; it can't last long. worn to death with your temper, and shan't ole you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And re say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! 's your love; that's your feeling! I know that Sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. when I'm gone, we shall see how your second will look after your buttons! You'll find out difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of chen; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed on to your back.

THIN SHOES

(From "The Last Curtain Lecture")

not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like; but I think I ought now my own feelings better than you. I don't to upbraid you, neither; I'm too ill for that; it's not getting wet in thin shoes-oh, no! my mind, Caudle, my mind, that's killing me. l! Oh, yes, gruel, indeed-you think gruel cure a woman of anything; and you know, too, I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer; of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. , I—I didn't mean to say that; but when you in that way about thin shoes, a woman says,

st. I dare say 'twould be all the same to you I put on ploughman's boots; but I am not going make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I'v wer got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and sn't likely I should begin now.

No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to cuse you; no, goodness knows I wouldn't mak uncomfortable for the world-but the cold - ten years ago. I have never said anything abou -but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago - day before yesterday. How can I recollect it , very well; women remember things you neve nk of, poor souls! they've good cause to do so n years ago I was sitting up for you-there now not going to say anything to vex you, only de me speak-ten years ago I was sitting up fo u, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and en I awoke I found I was sitting right in th aught of the key-hole. That was may death udle; though don't let that make you uneasy e, for I don't think you meant to do it.

Ha! it's very well for you to call it nonsense 1 to lay your ill-conduct on my shoes. That' e a man exactly. There never was a man yet tha led his wife who couldn't give a good reason fo

No; I don't mean to say that you've killed me ite the reverse; still, there's never been a da it I haven't felt that key-hole. What! Wh n't I have a doctor! What's the use of a doctor y should I put you to expense? Besides, I dar 7 you'll do very well without me, Caudle: yes er a very little time, you won't miss me muchman ever does.

Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day hat of it? Nothing, of course. Yes: I know sh

a, Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling your dearest soul, now? Well, I do believe you. ■re say you do mean it: that is, I hope you do. ertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in bed and think of that young woman--not, in1, that she's near so young as she gives herself I bear no malice toward her, Caudle-not the . Still, I don't think I could lie at peace in grave if—well, I won't say anything more about but you know what I mean.

Still I know I've

think dear mother would keep house beautifor you when I am gone. Well, love, I won't in that way, if you desire it. readful cold; though I won't allow it for a ute to be the shoes-certainly not. I never ld wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they r gave me cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's years ago that I did it; not that I'll say a ble of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first. other, you see, knows all your little ways; and wouldn't get another wife to study you and you up as I've done-a second wife never does; n't likely she should. And after all, we've very happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've a word or two, for you couldn't help now and being aggravating; nobody can help their ers always-especially men. Still, we've been happy-haven't we, Caudle?

od-night. Yes, this cold does tear me to es; but, for all that, it isn't the shoes. God you, Caudle. No-it is not the shoes. I won't it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not the 5. God bless you, once more-but never say the shoes.

HAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas

What were you to do? Why let him go hom Ehe rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there wa hing about him that could spoil. Take cold eed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to e cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold n take our only umbrella. Do you hear th n, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain d as I'm alive, if it isn't St. Swithin's day! D hear it against the windows?

Nonsense; you

't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with h a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh a do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think last for six weeks; and no stirring all the tim I of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool -. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the um ella! Anybody would think you were born yes -day. As if anybody ever did return an um ella! There-do you hear it? Worse and worse ts and dogs, and for six weeks-always si eks. And no umbrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to to school to-morrow? They sha'n't go through ch weather, I'm determined. No: they shall stop home and never learn anything-the blessed eatures!-sooner than go and get wet. And wher ey grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank r knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father eople who can't feel for their own children ough ver to be fathers.

"But I know why you lent the umbrella.

Oh

es: I know very well. I was going out to tea a ar mother's to-morrow-you knew that; and you d it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me t