nour, I'll help ye. Oh!
the arr'stocracy! Oh, their pride! But if I say, my dear, when I die
(which it's so horrud to think of), you'll have a share, and the
biggest--this vary cottage, and a good parrt o' the Bank property--she'll
come down at that. And if ye marry a lady of title, I'll be 's good as my
word, I will."

Wilfrid pressed her fingers. "Can you ever believe that, I have called
you a 'simmering pot of Emerald broth'?"

"My dear! annything that's lots o' words, Ye may call me," returned Mrs.
Chump, "as long as it's no name. Ye won't call me a name, will ye? Lots
o' words--it's onnly as if ye peppered me, and I sneeze, and that's all;
but a name sticks to yer back like a bit o' pinned paper. Don't call me a
name," and she wriggled pathetically.

"Yes," said Wilfrid, "I shall call you Pole."

"Oh! ye sweetest of young fellas!"

Mrs. Chump threw out her arms. She was on the point of kissing him, but
he fenced with the open letter; and learning that she might read it, she
gave a cry of joy.

"Dear W.!" she begins; and it's twice dear from a lady of title. She's
just a multiplication-table for annything she says and touches. "Dear
W.!" and the shorter time a single you the better. I'll have my joke, Mr.
Wilfrud. "Dear W.!" Bless her heart now! I seem to like her next best to
the Queen already.--"I have another plan." Ye'd better keep to the old;
but it's two paths, I suppose, to one point.--"Another plan. Come to me
at the Dolphin, where I am alone." Oh, Lord! 'Alone,' with a line under
it, Mr. Wilfrud! But there--the arr'stocracy needn't matter a bit."

"It's a very singular proceeding not the less," said Wilfrid. "Why didn't
she go to the hotel where the others are, if she wouldn't come here?"

"But the arr'stocracy, Mr. Wilfrud! And alone--alone! d'ye see? which
couldn't be among the others; becas of sweet whisperin'. 'Alone,'" Mrs.
Chump read on; "'and to-morrow I'll pay my respects to what you call your
simmering pot of Emerald broth.' Oh ye hussy! I'd say, if ye weren't a
borrn lady. And signs ut all, 'Your faithful Charlotte.' Mr. Wilfrud, I'd
give five pounds for this letter if I didn't know ye wouldn't part with
it under fifty. And 'deed I am a simmerin' pot; for she'll be a relation,
my dear! Go to 'r. I'll have your bed ready for ye here at the end of an
hour; and to-morrrow perhaps, if Lady Charlotte can spare me, I'll
condescend to see Ad'la."

Wilfrid fanned her cheek with the note, and the