"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do turn in." Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour. "What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such." "Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfect _Dalilah_, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, a _Samson_." "I'm sure _Dalilah_ never treated _Samson's_ old Coat with such Respect," says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him. "Soe now, keep your Eyes open--I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a Gossip's Bowl." When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, _his Eyes_, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as _Tangrolipix_ the _Turk_. All at once, he says, "_Deb_, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?" "No, Father." "Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?" "No, Father." "Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The _Cid_ parted with his _Tizona_ in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the Prophet _Abijah's_, are set, may well doe the same." _May 12, 1665_. Yesterday being the _Lord's Day_, Mother was hugely scared during Morning Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly resisted at first, saying,