eep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the
little parlour into which she led the way.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

NOT MUSICAL.

Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from
her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the
matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower--a faded rosebud, on whom
the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head
drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a
dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas
concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs
waiting to escape from her lips.

She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken
which would have caused the immolation of a widow's cap--which, however,
Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the
way.

"This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.," said Mrs Jenkles.

"Mine are to let," said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; "but does the gentleman
play anything brass?"

Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.

"Oh, dear, no," he said, smiling.

"Because I don't think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours'
lodgers," said Mrs Fiddison. "I might put up with strings, or wood,
but I could not manage brass."

"I do not play any instrument," said Richard, looking at the lady in a
troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she
gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.

"So many orchestral gentlemen live about here," said Mrs Fiddison.
"You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley's, next door but
one; but Waggly's have given the kettledrum notice."

"Indeed," said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing
her apron.

"Yes," said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief
before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. "The last
new pattern, sir."

Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.

"Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir."

"They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles," said the lady.
"A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don't object to the
smell of the crape, you'd not know there was anything going on in the
house."

"Oh, I'm sure I shouldn't mind," said Richard.

"Prr-oooomp!" went something which sounded like young thunder coming up
in the cellar.

"That's the double bass at C