“Very much so indeed, ma’am,” said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her. “Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.” “Not weak, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. “Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?” “We are all weak creeturs,” said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. “So we are,” said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side for a minute or two afterwards; and by the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became intwined. “We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. “Dont sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble. “I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. “This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, looking round. “Another room and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.” “It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady. “But not for two, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs. Corney?” Mrs. Corney drooped her head when the beadle said this, and the beadle drooped his to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief, but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. “The board allow you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. “And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. “Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a angel you are!” The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sunk into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman, in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. “Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?” “Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. “He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued, Mr. Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a joining of hearts and housekeeping!” Mrs. Corney sobbed. “The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty—“the one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?” “Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron. “One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?” Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak, and twice failed. At length, summoning up courage, she threw her arms round Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”