. I am certain we shall be happier if we can
battle it out together. Don't you think we shall?'

'Think, Tom!'

'Oh, tut, tut!' interposed Tom, tenderly. 'You mustn't cry.'

'No, no; I won't, Tom. But you can't afford it, dear. You can't,
indeed.'

'We don't know that,' said Tom. 'How are we to know that, yet awhile,
and without trying? Lord bless my soul!'--Tom's energy became quite
grand--'there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am
sure we can live contentedly upon a very little--if we can only get it.'

'Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.'

'Why, then,' said Tom, 'we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is
a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I'll take his advice.
We'll talk it over with him--both of us together. You'll like John very
much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don't cry, don't cry. YOU
make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!' said Tom, giving her a gentle push.
'Why, you haven't boldness enough for a dumpling!'

'You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!'

'I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,' said
Tom. 'Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?'

Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that
Tom's attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she
tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the
pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of
water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the
pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and
laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were
collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran
UPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn't put it on upstairs,
but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little
women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took
an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down
beneath--Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!--and to be gathered
up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to
be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set
right, which at last it did, and when it did--but never mind; this is
a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for
fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which
wouldn't come off (foolish little