was a pauper, and my whole piz'ness at a standstill. Not one
single letter do I get, not one. I want a hundred thousand things. I
send my orders months and months ago, and I get no reply. My trade is
all going to that tam feller, Crookenden! And you come, and ask me
for money. Vhen I go along to the Post Master, he kvestion me like a
criminal, and pring the Police Sergeant as if I vas a thief. I tell him
I nefer rob mail-bags. I tell him if other peoples lose letters, I
lose them too. I know nothing aboudt it. I tell him the rascal man is
Crookenden and Co.--he should take _him_ to prison: he contracts for
mails and nefer delivers my letters. I tell him Crookenden and Co. is
the criminal, not me. Then he laff, but that does not gif me my
letters."

During this harangue, Rachel had stood, the mute but pretty picture of
astonishment.

"But, father," she said, "I want to go to the bank. I want to speak to
Isaac awfully, and how can I go in there without some excuse!"

"I'll gif you the exguse to keep out! I tell you somethings which will
make you leave that young man alone. He nefer loaf you, Rachel--he loaf
only my money."

"Father! this worry about the mail has turned you silly."

"Oh, yes, I'm silly when I throw the ink-pot at him. I've gone mad when
I kick him out of my shop. You speak to that young man nefer again,
Rachel, my tear; you nefer look at him. Then, by-and-by, I marry you
to the mos' peautiful young man with the mos' loafly moustache and
whiskers. You leaf it to your poor old father. He'll choose you a good
husband. When I was a young man I consult with _my_ father, and I marry
your scharming mamma, and you, my tear Rachel, are the peautiful result.
Eh? my tear."

The old man took his daughter's face between his fat hands, and kissed
her on both cheeks.

"You silly old goose," said Rachel, tenderly, "you seem to think I have
no sense. I'm not going to marry Isaac _yet_--there can't be any harm in
speaking to him. I'm only engaged. Why should you be frightened if I
flirt a little with him? You seem to think a girl should be made of
cast-iron, and just wait till her father finds a husband for her. You're
buried up to your eyes in invoices and bills of lading and stupid,
worrying things that drive you cranky, and you never give a thought to
my future. What's to become of me, if I don't look out for myself?
Goodness knows! there are few enough men in the town that I _could_
marry; and because I pick ou