“I am very sure, Mr. Jericho, there is not a single drop of soda-water in the house.” Hereupon the sufferer ventured to make a suggestion. “Couldn’t you send for some?” “Certainly not,” replied Mrs. Jericho, with instant decision. “If I cannot reclaim you to propriety, at least let me have the satisfaction, for the sake of your children, Pennib—Mr. Jericho—for their sake, let me, if possible, hide from an inquisitive world the vices of their father. Let me, at least, have such barren consolation.” Jericho was silent. In consequence thereof, Mrs. Jericho, with gushing fluency, continued—“I have no wish, sir, to busy the idle world with my private wrongs; none whatever.” “I don’t see, my—my dear”—said Jericho, from under the clothes—“I don’t see why you should.” “And yet you ask me to send the servants for soda-water at this time of the day. But what do you care how the domestics talk! How your conduct as a husband and a father is made the gossip of the neighbourhood! I can just fancy, at this hour, Edwin asking for soda-water; and how very cleverly you’d be brought upon the counter. Of course, servants will talk. No wages will stop ’em. And—no, Mr. Jericho, no”—and his wife spoke as though sternly re-assured in her purpose—“you may stab my heart if you will; but at least you shall not—that is, if I can help it—you shall not call about the vulgar and unfeeling world to gaze upon the bleeding wound.” And Mrs. Jericho sat down. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, and you know I wouldn’t. Sabilla, dear, you know I wouldn’t.” Mrs. Jericho made no spoken reply; but her foot, tapping the carpet, was eloquent of unbelief and wrong. There was no answering this, therefore Jericho adroitly sought to turn the current of discourse. For several minutes he hunted for a thought, his wife’s foot still accompanying him on the search. At last he deemed himself successful, and with the vivacity of good fortune, said— “Can I have a cup of tea?” Mrs. Jericho rose like a sultana, and with a cold dignity, and in deep searching tones, that made Jericho wince in the sheets, said—“Of course, Mr. Jericho; you are master in your own house. Of course, you can have a cup of tea.” And with this assurance, Mrs. Jericho slowly swept from her profaned bed-room. * * * * * “Well, and what does the old felon say? The scaly old griffin! What’s he got to answer for himself?” A young gentleman close upon one of the privileges of legal manhood—the privilege of going to prison for his own debts—put this sudden question to Mrs. Jericho, on her instant return to the drawing-room, from the interview narrated above. “Come, what is it? Will he give me the money? In a word,” asked the hurried youth, “will he go into the melting-pot like a man and a father?” “My dear Basil, you mustn’t ask me,” replied Mrs. Jericho to her emphatic first-born.