"Oh, come, now! I don't know so much about hearts. I know which side I want my bread buttered--eh, mother?" "Certainly, Jeremiah." "Well, then, why shouldn't it be?" "Why shouldn't what be?" asked Mrs. Pamflett, very much mystified. Jeremiah put his forefinger to the side of his nose. "When I tell you, mother, you'll be as wise as I am." "But do tell me, Jeremiah," the fond mother pleaded. "Still tongue, wise head," said he. "No; I'll have a good think over it first." He went up to Miser Farebrother with his books and papers, and when the interview was over he returned to his mother, who by that time had a hot meal prepared for him. Before she dished it up he asked her whether she could find Tom Barley. "The old skinflint wants to see him," said Jeremiah, with an upward jerk of his head, in the direction of the room occupied by Miser Farebrother. "He has something very particular to say to the beggar, which will open his eyes a bit. Go and find him, mother, and send him up. I'll wait. Pleasure first, business afterward." Tom Barley happened to be within hail, and Mrs. Pamflett sent him up to the miser, and then attended to her son. She waited till he was well primed, and presumably therefore in a more complaisant humour, and then she said, coaxingly, "Won't you tell me, Jeremiah, what you meant by saying 'Why shouldn't it be?'" "No, I won't, and that's flat," replied Jeremiah; "at least, I won't till I've a mind to. But Phoebe _is_ a pretty girl, isn't she, mother?" "I was pretty once," sighed Mrs. Pamflett. "Shouldn't have thought it. But women go off so. I don't know that I've ever seen a much prettier girl than Phoebe." Mrs. Pamflett opened her eyes wide; she began to have a glimmering of her son's meaning. "There's styles," continued Jeremiah. "Some like one style, some like another. For my part, I'm not particular, so long as a girl's nice looking. It don't matter to me much whether they're dark or fair, or long or short, so long as they're that. Mother, you're not a bad sort, and I'll be open with you." "You're my own boy!" exclaimed the fond mother, pressing her son's head to her bosom. "I wish you wouldn't!" cried Jeremiah. "I don't care to have your buttons grinding into my nose. When you've recovered yourself, perhaps you'll sit down." Mrs. Pamflett obeyed meekly, murmuring, "I couldn't help it, Jeremiah." "Well, do help it. I tell you once for all, do help it. I don't want to have my nose skinned. I've a good mind now not to tell you." "Do tell me, Jeremiah," implored Mrs. Pamflett--"do! And I'll never take you sudden again." "Very well, then; but mind you keep your word. You're always at it, hugging and pressing me as if I was a bit of wood! Yes; I say there's styles, and what I say on the top of that is that I ain't particular so long as everything else is O.K." "What's O.K.?" inquired Mrs. Pamflett, anxiously.