me, which are acted and
re-acted, scene by scene, and year by year, in the secret theatre of
home; tragedies which are ever shadowed by the slow falling of the black
curtain that drops lower and lower every day--that drops, to hide all at
last, from the hand of death.

"We have had very beautiful weather lately, Sir," said Mrs. Sherwin,
almost inaudibly; looking as she spoke, with anxious eyes towards her
husband, to see if she was justified in uttering even those piteously
common-place words. "Very beautiful weather to be sure," continued the
poor woman, as timidly as if she had become a little child again, and
had been ordered to say her first lesson in a stranger's presence.

"Delightful weather, Mrs. Sherwin. I have been enjoying it for the
last two days in the country--in a part of Surrey (the neighbourhood of
Ewell) that I had not seen before."

There was a pause. Mr. Sherwin coughed; it was evidently a warning
matrimonial peal that he had often rung before--for Mrs. Sherwin
started, and looked up at him directly.

"As the lady of the house, Mrs. S., it strikes me that you might offer
a visitor, like this gentleman, some cake and wine, without making any
particular hole in your manners!"

"Oh dear me! I beg your pardon! I'm very sorry, I'm sure"--and she
poured out a glass of wine, with such a trembling hand that the decanter
tinkled all the while against the glass. Though I wanted nothing, I
ate and drank something immediately, in common consideration for Mrs.
Sherwin's embarrassment.

Mr. Sherwin filled himself a glass--held it up admiringly to the
light--said, "Your good health, Sir, your very good health;" and drank
the wine with the air of a connoisseur, and a most expressive smacking
of the lips. His wife (to whom he offered nothing) looked at him all the
time with the most reverential attention.

"You are taking nothing yourself, Mrs. Sherwin," I said.

"Mrs. Sherwin, Sir," interposed her husband, "never drinks wine, and
can't digest cake. A bad stomach--a very bad stomach. Have another glass
yourself. Won't you, indeed? This sherry stands me in six shillings a
bottle--ought to be first-rate wine at that price: and so it is.
Well, if you won't have any more, we will proceed to business. Ha! ha!
business as _I_ call it; pleasure I hope it will be to _you_."

Mrs. Sherwin coughed--a very weak, small cough, half-stifled in its
birth.

"There you are again!" he said, turning fiercely towards her--"C