The two ladies looked at each other, and having decided on a joint scowl, it fell with annihilating blackness on the master-mason, and Mrs. Muff trod upon his toes under the table, a conjugal hint that Mr. Muff had taken enough! Mrs. Flumgarten had a momentary tiff with Mrs. Muff upon some trifling family jealousy, which brought into contest their diminutive dignities; but as the fond sisters had the good fortune to be Fubsys, and as the Fubsys enjoyed the exclusive privilege of abusing one another with impunity, the sarcastic compliments and ironical sneers they so lovingly exchanged passed for nothing after the first fire. The absence of Mr. Flumgarten, a scholar and a gentleman, who had backed out of this party of pleasure, (?) left his lady at a sad loss for one favourite subject in which she revelled, because it annoyed him; consequently there were no vulgar impertinent hits at “your clever people!” This hiatus led to some melancholy details of what she had suffered during her matrimonial pilgrimage. “Suffered!” muttered the middle-aged gentleman, indignantly. “Yes, Madam Zantippe, you have suffered! But what? Why, your greeneyed illiterate prejudices to mar all that makes the domestic hearth intellectual and happy! Yes! you have reduced it to a cheerless desert, where you reign the restless fury of contradiction and discord!” Master Guy Muff, the eldest born of Brutus, a youth who exhibited a capacious development of the eating and drinking organs, with a winning smile that would have made his fortune through a horse-collar, emerged from his post of honour behind the puffed sleeves and rustling skirts of “ma's,” and aunt's silk gowns. “Don't be frightened, Guy,” said Mrs. Flumgarten, soothingly; “it's _only_ Mr. Timwig.” “I arn't a-going to, aunt,” snuffled the self-complaisant Master Guy. [Illustration: 0206] “I hope, young gentleman,” said uncle Timothy, (for looking at the lump of living lumber, he did not venture to suppose,) “that you learn your lessons, and are perfect in your exercises.” “What,--hoop, skipping-rope, and pris'ner's base?” “Can you parse?” “Oh, yes? I pass my time at dumps and marloes.” “Speak your Christmas-piece to Mr. Timtiffin, do, dear Guy!” said “ma,” coaxingly. Master Guy Muff made the effort, Mr. Brutus Muff acting as prompter. Master Guy (taking in each hand a dessert-plate). “Look here upon this pic-tur, and on this, The counter--counter--” “Sink the _shop!_” whispered Uncle Timothy. Mr. Muff. “Fit presen-ti-ment--” “You put the boy out, Mr. Muff, as you _always_ do!” snarled Mrs. Muff. Master Muff.-- “--Of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on that brow; Hy--Hy--” “Isn't it something about curls and front?” said Mr. Muff. Mrs. Muff took this as an affront to her own particular jazey, which was bushily redolent of both; she darted a fierce frown _à la_ Fubsy at the interrogator, that awed him to silence.