y comical to
Lady Charlotte's ears. They were the repressions of a poignant outcry.
"Doggies make that noise," thought the lady, and succeeded in feeling
contemptuous.

Wilfrid, when he found that Lady Charlotte was not coming, bestowed a
remark upon her sex, and went indoors for his letter. He considered it
politic not to read it there, Mrs. Chump having grown so friendly, and
even motherly, that she might desire, out of pure affection, to share
the contents. He put it by and talked gaily, till Mrs. Chump, partly to
account for the defection of the lady, observed that she knew they had
a quarrel. She was confirmed in this idea on a note being brought in to
him, over which, before opening it, he frowned and flushed. Aware of the
treachery of his countenance, he continued doing so after his eyes had
taken in the words, though there was no special ground furnished by
them for any such exhibition. Mrs. Chump immediately, with a gaze of
mightiest tribulation, burst out: "I'll help ye; 'pon my honour, 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 t