_Mrs. Woffington._ “Yes, off with it--there's a hole in it--and carve.” Then she whipped to the other end of the table and stitched like wild-fire. “Be pleased to cast your eyes on that, Mrs. Triplet. Pass it to the lady, young gentleman. Fire away, Mr. Triplet, never mind us women. Woffington's housewife, ma'am, fearful to the eye, only it holds everything in the world, and there is a small space for everything else--to be returned by the bearer. Thank you, sir.” (Stitches away like lightning at the coat.) “Eat away, children! now is your time; when once I begin, the pie will soon end; I do everything so quick.” _Roxalana._ “The lady sews quicker than you, mother.” _Woffington._ “Bless the child, don't come so near my sword-arm; the needle will go into your eye, and out at the back of your head.” This nonsense made the children giggle. “The needle will be lost--the child no more--enter undertaker--house turned topsy-turvy--father shows Woffington to the door--off she goes with a face as long and dismal as some people's comedies--no names--crying fine chan-ey oranges.” The children, all but Lucy, screeched with laughter. Lucy said gravely: “Mother, the lady is very funny.” “You will be as funny when you are as well paid for it.” This just hit poor Trip's notion of humor, and he began to choke, with his mouth full of pie. “James, take care,” said Mrs. Triplet, sad and solemn. James looked up. “My wife is a good woman, madam,” said he; “but deficient in an important particular.” “Oh, James!” “Yes, my dear. I regret to say you have no sense of humor; nummore than a cat, Jane.” “What! because the poor thing can't laugh at your comedy?” “No, ma'am; but she laughs at nothing.” “Try her with one of your tragedies, my lad.” “I am sure, James,” said the poor, good, lackadaisical woman, “if I don't laugh, it is not for want of the will. I used to be a very hearty laugher,” whined she; “but I haven't laughed this two years.” “Oh, indeed!” said the Woffington. “Then the next two years you shall do nothing else.” “Ah, madam!” said Triplet. “That passes the art, even of the great comedian.” “Does it?” said the actress, coolly. _Lucy._ “She is not a comedy lady. You don't ever cry, pretty lady?” _Woffington_ (ironically). “Oh, of course not.” _Lucy_ (confidentially). “Comedy is crying. Father cried all the time he was writing his one.” Triplet turned red as fire. “Hold your tongue,” said he. “I was bursting with merriment. Wife, our children talk too much; they put their noses into everything, and criticise their own father.” “Unnatural offspring!” laughed the visitor. “And when they take up a notion, Socrates couldn't convince them to the contrary. For instance, madam, all this morning they thought fit to assume that they were starving.” “So we were,” said Lysimachus, “until the angel came; and the devil went for the pie.” “There--there--there! Now, you mark my words; we shall never get that idea out of their heads--”