ighborhood were crying out that they were done.

"Serve the odious minx right!" says Miss C.; and she played at piquet
that night with more vigor than I have known her manifest for these last
ten years.

What is it that makes certain old ladies so savage upon certain
subjects? Miss C. is a good woman; pays her rent and her tradesmen;
gives plenty to the poor; is brisk with her tongue--kind-hearted in the
main; but if Mrs. Stafford Molyneux and her children were plunged into
a caldron of boiling vinegar, I think my revered friend would not take
them out.

THE MAN IN POSSESSION.

For another misfortune which occurred in Our Street we were much more
compassionate. We liked Danby Dixon, and his wife Fanny Dixon still
more. Miss C. had a paper of biscuits and a box of preserved apricots
always in the cupboard, ready for Dixon's children--provisions by
the way which she locked up under Mrs. Cammysole's nose, so that our
landlady could by no possibility lay a hand on them.

Dixon and his wife had the neatest little house possible, (No. 16,
opposite 96,) and were liked and respected by the whole street. He was
called Dandy Dixon when he was in the dragoons, and was a light weight,
and rather famous as a gentleman rider. On his marriage, he sold out and
got fat: and was indeed a florid, contented, and jovial gentleman.

His little wife was charming--to see her in pink with some miniature
Dixons, in pink too, round about her, or in that beautiful gray dress,
with the deep black lace flounces, which she wore at my Lord Comandine's
on the night of the private theatricals, would have done any man
good. To hear her sing any of my little ballads, "Knowest Thou the
Willow-tree?" for instance, or "The Rose upon my Balcony," or "The
Humming of the Honey-bee," (far superior in MY judgment, and in that
of SOME GOOD JUDGES likewise, to that humbug Clarence Bulbul's
ballads,)--to hear her, I say, sing these, was to be in a sort of small
Elysium. Dear, dear little Fanny Dixon! she was like a little chirping
bird of Paradise. It was a shame that storms should ever ruffle such a
tender plumage.

Well, never mind about sentiment. Danby Dixon, the owner of this little
treasure, an ex-captain of Dragoons, and having nothing to do, and
a small income, wisely thought he would employ his spare time, and
increase his revenue. He became a director of the Cornaro Life Insurance
Company, of the Tregulpho tin-mines, and of four or five railroa