“Oh, it is a mortal disease,” replied Sampson, as cool as a cucumber. “She has got angina pictoris or brist-pang, a disorder that admirably eximplifies the pretinsions of midicine t' seeince.” And with this he dashed into monologue. Maxley's tall gaunt form came slouching in, and traversed the floor, pounding it with heavy nailed boots. He seated himself gravely at Mrs. Dodd's invitation, took a handkerchief out of his hat, wiped his face, and surveyed the company, grand and calm. In James Maxley all was ponderous: his head was huge, his mouth, when it fairly opened, revealed a chasm, and thence issued a voice naturally stentorian by its volume and native vigour; but, when the owner of this incarnate bassoon had a mind to say something sagacious, he sank at once from his habitual roar to a sound scarce above a whisper; a contrast mighty comical to hear, though on paper _nil._ “Well, what is it Maxley! Rheumatism again?” “No, that it ain't,” bellowed Maxley defiantly. “What then? Come, look sharp.” “Well, then, doctor, I'll tell you. I'm sore troubled--with--a--mouse.” This malady, announced in the tone of a proclamation, and coming after so much solemn preparation, amused the party considerably, although parturient mountains had ere then produced muscipular abortions. “A mouse!” inquired Sampson disdainfully. “Where? Up your sleeve? Don't come to me: go t' a sawbones and have your arm cut off. I've seen 'em mutilate a pashint for as little.” Maxley said it was not up his sleeve, worse luck. On this Alfred hazarded a conjecture. “Might it not have gone down his throat? Took his potato-trap for the pantry-door. Ha! ha!” “Ay, I hear ye, young man, a-laughing at your own sport,” said Maxley, winking his eye; “but 'tain't the biggest mouth as catches the most. You sits yander fit to bust; but (with a roar like a lion) ye never offers _me_ none on't, neither sup nor bit.” At this sudden turn of Mr. Maxley's wit, light and playful as a tap of the old English quarter-staff, they were a little staggered; all but Edward, who laughed and supplied him zealously with sandwiches. “You're a gentleman, you are,” said Maxley, looking full at Sampson and Alfred to point the contradistinction. Having thus disposed of his satirists, he contemplated the sandwiches with an inquiring and philosophic eye. “Well,” said he, after long and thoughtful inspection, “you gentlefoiks won't die of hard work; your sarvants must cut the very meat to fit your mouths.” And not to fall behind the gentry in a great and useful department of intelligence, he made precisely one mouthful of each sandwich. Mrs. Dodd was secretly amazed, and, taking care not to be noticed by Maxley, said confidentially, _“Monsieur avait bien raison; le souris a passe: par la._”