“Then let them be hungry in another room,” said the irritated scribe. “They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is going to make all our fortunes; but you women,” snapped Triplet the Just, “have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed; every man Jack of them!” Finding the conversation taking this turn, the brats raised a unanimous howl. Triplet darted a fierce glance at them. “Hungry, hungry,” cried he; “is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting down here, all gayety” (scratching wildly with his pen) “and hilarity” (scratch) “to write a com--com--” he choked a moment; then in a very different voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: “Where's the youngest--where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry.” Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gently to his side, and wrote silently. The others were still. “Father,” said Lucy, aged five, the germ of a woman, “I am not very hungry.” “And I am not hungry at all,” said bluff Lysimachus, taking his sister's cue; then going upon his own tact he added, “I had a great piece of bread and butter yesterday!” “Wife, they will drive me mad!” and he dashed at the paper. The second boy explained to his mother, _sotto voce:_ “Mother, he _made_ us hungry out of his book.” “It is a beautiful book,” said Lucy. “Is it a cookery book?” Triplet roared: “Do you hear that?” inquired he, all trace of ill-humor gone. “Wife,” he resumed, after a gallant scribble, “I took that sermon I wrote.” “And beautiful it was, James. I'm sure it quite cheered me up with thinking that we shall all be dead before so very long.” “Well, the reverend gentleman would not have it. He said it was too hard upon sin. 'You run at the Devil like a mad bull,' said he. 'Sell it in Lambeth, sir; here calmness and decency are before everything,' says he. 'My congregation expect to go to heaven down hill. Perhaps the chaplain of Newgate might give you a crown for it,' said he,” and Triplet dashed viciously at the paper. “Ah!” sighed he, “if my friend Mrs. Woffington would but drop these stupid comedies and take to tragedy, this house would soon be all smiles.” “Oh James!” replied Mrs. Triplet, almost peevishly, “how can you expect anything but fine words from that woman? You won't believe what all the world says. You will trust to your own good heart.” “I haven't a good heart,” said the poor, honest fellow. “I spoke like a brute to you just now.” “Never mind, James,” said the woman. “I wonder how you put up with me at all--a sick, useless creature. I often wish to die, for your sake. I know you would do better. I am such a weight round your neck.” The man made no answer, but he put Lucy gently down, and went to the woman, and took her forehead to his bosom, and held it there; and after a while returned with silent energy to his comedy. “Play us a tune on the fiddle, father.” “Ay, do, husband. That helps you often in your writing.”