e sherry, my love, do. I require something to cheer me in
solitude, and have found my chest very much relieved by that wine. Put
more pepper and eggs, my dear, into the next veal-pie you make me. I
can't eat the horrible messes in the coffee-room here."

It was Walker's wish, I can't tell why, except that it is the wish of
a great number of other persons in this strange world, to make his
wife believe that he was wretched in mind and ill in health; and all
assertions to this effect the simple creature received with numberless
tears of credulity: she would go home to Mrs. Crump, and say how her
darling Howard was pining away, how he was ruined for HER, and with what
angelic sweetness he bore his captivity. The fact is, he bore it with so
much resignation that no other person in the world could see that he
was unhappy. His life was undisturbed by duns; his day was his own from
morning till night; his diet was good, his acquaintances jovial, his
purse tolerably well supplied, and he had not one single care to annoy
him.

Mrs. Crump and Woolsey, perhaps, received Morgiana's account of her
husband's miseries with some incredulity. The latter was now a daily
visitor to "Sadler's Wells." His love for Morgiana had become a warm
fatherly generous regard for her; it was out of the honest fellow's
cellar that the wine used to come which did so much good to Mr. Walker's
chest; and he tried a thousand ways to make Morgiana happy.

A very happy day, indeed, it was when, returning from her visit to the
Fleet, she found in her mother's sitting-room her dear grand rosewood
piano, and every one of her music-books, which the kind-hearted tailor
had purchased at the sale of Walker's effects. And I am not ashamed
to say that Morgiana herself was so charmed, that when, as usual, Mr.
Woolsey came to drink tea in the evening, she actually gave him a kiss;
which frightened Mr. Woolsey, and made him blush exceedingly. She
sat down, and played him that evening every one of the songs which
he liked--the OLD songs--none of your Italian stuff. Podmore, the old
music-master, was there too, and was delighted and astonished at the
progress in singing which Morgiana had made; and when the little party
separated, he took Mr. Woolsey by the hand, and said, "Give me leave to
tell you, sir, that you're a TRUMP."

"That he is," said Canterfield, the first tragic; "an honour to human
nature. A man whose hand is open as day to melting charity, and whose
he