hink men should marry again, Doctor Portman, answered his
lady, bridling up.

"You stupid old woman," said the Doctor, "when I am gone, you shall
marry whomsoever you like. I will leave orders in my will, my dear,
to that effect: and I'll bequeath a ring to my successor, and my Ghost
shall come and dance at your wedding."

"It is cruel for a clergyman to talk so," the lady answered, with a
ready whimper: but these little breezes used to pass very rapidly over
the surface of the Doctor's domestic bliss; and were followed by a great
calm and sunshine. The Doctor adopted a plan for soothing Mrs. Portman's
ruffled countenance, which has a great effect when it is tried between a
worthy couple who are sincerely fond of one another; and which, I think,
becomes 'John Anderson' at three-score, just as much as it used to do
when he was a black-haired young Jo of five-and-twenty.

"Hadn't you better speak to Mr. Smirke, John?" Mrs Portman asked.

"When Pen goes to College, cadit quaestio," replied the Rector,
"Smirke's visits at Fairoaks will cease of themselves, and there will be
no need to bother the widow. She has trouble enough on her hands, with
the affairs of that silly young scapegrace, without being pestered by
the tittle-tattle of this place. It is all an invention of that fool,
Fribsby."

"Against whom I always warned you,--you know I did, my dear John,"
interposed Mrs. Portman.

"That you did; you very often do, my love," the Doctor answered with a
laugh. "It is not for want of warning on your part, I am sure, that I
have formed my opinion of most women with whom we are acquainted. Madame
Fribsby is a fool, and fond of gossip, and so are some other folks. But
she is good to the poor: she takes care of her mother, and she comes
to church twice every Sunday. And as for Smirke, my dear----" here the
Doctor's face assumed for one moment a comical expression, which Mrs.
Portman did not perceive (for she was looking out of the drawing-room
window, and wondering what Mrs. Pybus could want cheapening fowls
again in the market, when she had bad poultry from Livermore's two days
before)--"and as for Mr. Smirke, my dear Betsy, will you promise me that
you will never breathe to any mortal what I am going to tell you as a
profound secret?"

"What is it, my dear John!--of course I won't," answered the Rector's
lady.

"Well, then--I cannot say it is a fact, mind--but if you find that
Smirke is at this moment--ay, and has bee