“Well, Aggy,” cried Cursty, when he had recovered from the first shock, “thee’ll have to suffer for’t as well as meysel for forty t’ notes I’d got in t’ pocket-book, thar was thy marriage lines that thee wud mek me bring up wi’ me, to show thee wast an honest woman, if ever thee sud want as much.” “Waistoma! waistoma!” cried poor Mrs. Sandboys, when she heard of this, to her, the greatest loss of all. At first she raved against London, and London people, and London wickedness. Then she declared it was all Cursty’s fault, and owing to his nasty idle habits of never emptying his pockets, when he changed his clothes, but leaving everything to her to do. Next, she vowed she would go back to Buttermere that very night, for nothing but misery had befallen her ever since they had made up their mind to enjoy themselves. However, when her anger had somewhat exhausted itself, she entreated her own dear Cursty to hasten after the flower-seller. The man could not be far off, unless he had discovered the prize he had got, and decamped with it to some other part of the town; but she was almost certain he had not felt anything in the pockets at the time he was looking the trowsers over in the passage, or else he would have been more anxious to have purchased them than he was. Mr. Sandboys she directed to go one way, and Jobby another; for if her marriage lines were really gone, it was impossible to tell what might happen. In obedience to her commands, Cursty and Jobby were soon out of the house, exploring every street and corner in quest of the flower-seller. And here, we must, reader, for the present drop the curtain. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER X. “Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d, There trick wi’ tumult rages; Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d, An’ sense wi’ craft engages. * * * * * “Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair, Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak; An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware, Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak. * * * * * “Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see, Advancin’ for a brek, Just askin’ threyce as much as he Kens he’ll consent to tek. ‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here, Ye’s have it chep, believe me; ’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear. Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’” _Rosley Fair, by John Stagg._