--

"Wimble, you had better take poor old Topley's place."

"And--and take charge of the yard, sir?"

"Yes. I can trust you, can't I?"

"Oh, yes, sir; but--"

"Ah! Yes. You have no wife to put in the cottage."

Jem began to look foolish, and examine the lining of his hat.

"Well, sir, if it comes to that," he faltered; and there was a weak
comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing.

"I know, uncle," he cried, "he has got a sweetheart."

"Well, Master Don," said the young man, colouring up; "and nothing to be
ashamed on neither."

"Certainly not," said the merchant quietly. "You had better get
married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you
old Topley's furniture."

Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding
news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on
his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which
time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,--

"It's all right, sir; she says she will."

The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his
cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the
furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men's time, and married a
wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam
hen.

This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem
spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his
little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a
kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master.

"Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem," she said; "but
you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea."

"Yes, my dear, of course, of course," said Jem, apologetically. "Not
much past time, and had to shut up first."

"That's what you always say when you're late. You don't know, Master
Don, what a life he leads me."

"'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me."

"Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the
tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning
limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I
know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this
for flies."

"It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with
Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitche