Though the Major called the dame “a suspicious old fool,” and kept abusing her all the while she was fastening the hooks and eyes of his military surtout, she continued to give vent to her feelings, and begged to remind him that it would be no fault of hern if he went and got his blood chilled, and had the cold lay in his bones to the end of his days. Nor would she let him quit the house until she had placed the cork sock in his shoe, and stowed away his comforter in the crown of his hat, saying, that there was no telling how late he might be kept on such a herrand. And as she accompanied him to the street-door, she drew her little bag of camphor from her bosom, and slipping it into his hand, bade him keep it about him; for with that in his pocket, there was no chance of his ketching any of the nasty fevers that was always flying about in such low places. The Major, impatient as he was, could hardly refrain from laughing at Mistress Coddle’s extreme care; and as they hurried up the street, he dilated on the medicinal and domestic virtues of his housekeeper—half by way of apology for the familiarity of her manner, and half as the means of diverting or alleviating the distress of his young companion. But poor Elcy paid little attention to what was said; she was too much alarmed, lest they should reach the office when it was too late to save her father from being consigned to prison, and responding Yes and No, smiled mechanically at the Major’s remarks, without understanding one word of what he was telling her. As the old East Indian warmed in his description of the valuable services of his housekeeper, he occasionally paused on the way, standing still, much to Elcy’s horror, to give her a more vivid idea of the doings of his female factotum. Then the anxious girl would strive, by every gentle art, to lead him on, and when she found she could stir him by no indirect means, she would timidly remind the Major that they had little time to spare; then away they would hurry again—the Major’s wooden leg sounding on the pavement, as they went, like a cooper’s hammer at an empty cask. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII. “True friendship leyfe’s deleyte still pruives, Nor ever flings mankeyn’ to woe, The gud whea still their brethren luives What leads to virtue ay will shew. “True friendship that can neer cause streyfe, But e’en keep frae distress and pain, An’ shew what bliss it gie’s thro’ leyfe In every bwosom still s’ud reign.” “_To Friendship,” by Anderson._