Having listened at the keyhole to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers, which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender, seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace, and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, “I’ll do it!” He followed up this remarkable declaration by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog, and then took a view of his legs in profile with much seeming pleasure and interest. He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. “Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, “what is this, ma’am? has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me; I’m on—on—” Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word “tenterhooks,” so he said, “broken bottles.” “Oh, Mr. Bumble!” cried the lady, “I have been so dreadfully put out!” “Put out, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble; “who has dared to—? I know!” said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, “this is them wicious paupers!” “It’s dreadful to think of!” said the lady, shuddering. “Then _don’t_ think of it, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “I can’t help it,” whimpered the lady. “Then take something, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, soothingly. “A little of the wine?” “Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed distractedly to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet, and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf, thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady’s lips. “I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness, and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. “Peppermint,” explained Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. “Try it; there’s a little—a little something else in it.” Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips, took another taste, and put the cup down empty. “It is very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.