“Well, then,” said Jericho, a little appalled, for an impartial circle had called Mrs. Jericho the Siddons of private life, she could so freeze her friends with her fine manner—“Well, then, let me go to sleep. It’s very hard, Mrs. Jericho; very hard, that you will always be throwing your husband’s ashes in my face.” “No levity, sir; no levity,” said Mrs. Jericho, very ponderously. “Though unhappily I am your wife, I cannot forget that I am Miss Pennibacker’s widow.” And then Mrs. Jericho drew a sepulchral sigh; and then she hopefully added—“but he forgives me. However, as I believe I have observed once before, Mr. Jericho, I will no longer be made a cat’s-paw of.” “Of course not. Why should you?” said Jericho. “I’m sure, for my part, I want a wife with as little of the cat as possible.” And then Jericho shrank in the bed, as though he had ventured too much. Possibly Mrs. Jericho was too imperious to note the coarse affront; for she merely repeated—“Very well, Mr. Jericho: all I want to know is this—I ask to know no more. When—when will you let me have some money?” As though the bed had been strown with powdered pumice, Jericho shifted and writhed. “I don’t wish to annoy you, Mr. Jericho,” said the woman, with dread composure. “But you compel me, gracious knows, much against my nature, to ask when—when will you let me have some money?” Jericho shook and groaned. “It is much more afflicting to my nature, much greater suffering to me to ask, than it can be for you to hear. Major Pennibacker never had a pocket to himself. He, dear fellow, always came to me. Ha! how few men can appreciate the true dignity of married life. As I always used to say,—one heart and one pocket. However, as it’s quite time for me to get up; and as I suppose you intend to go to sleep—and as people will be here, and I must give them an answer of some sort,—permit me, Mr. Jericho, to ask you—I’m sure it’s painful enough to my feelings, and I feel degraded by the question—nevertheless, I must and will ask you,—when will you let me have some money?” Jericho—as though a dagger had been suddenly struck up through the bed—bounced bolt upright. There was a supernatural horror in his look: even his own wife, familiar as she was with his violence, almost squealed. However, silently eyeing him through the small murderous loop-holes of her lace border, Mrs. Jericho saw her pale-faced husband snatch off his cap, holding it away at arm’s length: then, breathing hard and casting back his head, he cried in tones so deep and so unnaturally grating, that the poor woman, like a night-flower, shrank within herself at the first sound,— “I WISH TO HEAVEN I WAS MADE OF MONEY!” Mrs. Jericho, considerably relieved that it was no worse, added in a low, deep, earnest voice—“I wish to Heaven you were.” * * * * *