“I know it, I know it!” cried Mrs. Dodd, kissing her; “I shall never lose my daughter while she breathes. But I am losing my child. You are turning to a woman visibly: and you were such a happy child. Hence my misgivings, and these weak tears, which you have dried with a word: see!” And she contrived to smile. “And now go down, dearest: he may be impatient; men's love is so fiery.” The next day Mrs. Dodd took Julia apart and asked her whether there was an answer from Mr. Hardie. Julia replied, from Alfred, that Jane had received a letter last night, and, to judge by the contents, Mr. Hardie must have left London before Alfred's letter got there. “He is gone to see poor Uncle Thomas.” “Why do you call him 'poor?'” “Oh, he is not very clever; has not much mind, Alfred says; indeed, hardly any.” “You alarm me, Julia!” cried Mrs. Dodd. “What? madness in the family you propose to marry into?” “Oh no, mamma,” said Julia, in a great hurry; “no madness; only a little imbecility.” Mrs. Dodd's lip curved at this Julian answer; but just then her mind was more drawn to another topic. A serious doubt passed through her, whether, if Mr. Hardie did not write soon, she ought not to limit his son's attendance on her daughter. “He follows her about like a little dog,” said she half fretfully. Next day, by previous invitation, Dr. Sampson made Albion Villa his head-quarters. Darting in from London, he found Alfred sitting very close to Julia over a book. “Lordsake!” cried he, “here's 'my puppy,' and 'm' enthusiast,' cheek by chowl.” Julia turned scarlet, and Alfred ejaculated so loudly, that Sampson inquired “what on airth was the matter now?” “Oh, nothing; only here have I been jealous of my own shadow, and pestering her who 'your puppy' was: and she never would tell me. All I could get from her,” added he, turning suddenly from gratitude to revenge, “was that he was no greater a puppy than yourself, doctor.” “Oh, Alfred, no; I only said no vainer,” cried Julia in dismay. “Well, it is true,” said Sampson contentedly, and proceeded to dissect himself just as he would a stranger. “I am a vain man; a remarkably vain man. But then I'm a man of great mirit.” “All vain people are that,” suggested Alfred dryly. “Who should know better than you, young Oxford? Y' have got a hidache.” “No, indeed.” “Don't tell lies now. Ye can't deceive me; man, I've an eye like a hawk. And what's that ye're studying with her? Ovid, for a pound.” “No; medicine; a treatise on your favourite organ, the brain, by one Dr. Whately.” “He is chaffing you, doctor,” said Edward; “it is logic. He is coaching her; and then she will coach me.” “Then I forbid the chaff-cutting, young Pidant. Logic is an ill plaster to a sore head.” “Oh, 'the labour we delight in, physics pain.'” “Jinnyus, Jinnyus; Take care o' your carkuss,” retorted the master of doggrel. “And that is a profounder remark than you seem to think, by your grinning, all of ye.”