“It is not the inky cloak, Mr. Applebite,” replied Mrs. Greatgirdle, “that truly indicates regret; but it’s here,” (laying her hand upon her left side): “no—there, under his liver wing, that he feels it, poor bird! It’s a shocking thing to live alone.” “And especially in such a large cage,” said Mrs. Waddledot. “Your house is rather large, Mr. Applebite?” inquired Mrs. Greatgirdle. “Rather, ma’am,” replied Collumpsion. “Ain’t you very lonely?” said Mrs. Waddledot and Mrs. Greatgirdle both in a breath. “Why, not—” “Very lively, you were going to say,” interrupted Mrs. G. Now Mrs. G. was wrong in her conjecture of Collumpsion’s reply. He was about to say, “Why, not at all;” but she, of course, knew best what he ought to have answered. “I often feel for you, Mr. Applebite,” remarked Mrs. Waddledot; “and think how strange it is that you, who really are a nice young man—and I don’t say so to flatter you—that you should have been so unsuccessful with the ladies.” Collumpsion’s vanity was awfully mortified at this idea. “It is strange!” exclaimed Mrs. G “I wonder it don’t make you miserable. There is no home, I mean the ‘Sweet, sweet home,’ without a wife. Try, try again, Mr. Applebite,” (tapping his arm as she rose;) “faint heart never won fair lady.” “I refused Mr. Waddledot three times, but I yielded at last; take courage from that, and 24, Pleasant Terrace, may shortly become that Elysium—a woman’s home,” whispered Mrs. W., as she rolled gracefully to a card-table; and accidentally, of course, cut the ace of spades, which she exhibited to Collumpsion with a very mysterious shake of the head. Agamemnon returned to 24, Pleasant Terrace, a discontented man. He felt that there was no one sitting up for him—nothing but a rush-light—the dog might bark as he entered, but no voice was there to welcome him, and with a heavy heart he ascended the two stone steps of his dwelling. He took out his latch-key, and was about to unlock the door, when a loud knocking was heard in the next street. Collumpsion paused, and then gave utterance to his feelings. “That’s music—positively music. This is my house—there’s my name on the brass-plate—that’s my knocker, as I can prove by the bill and receipt; and, yet, here I am about to sneak in like a burglar. Old John sha’n’t go to bed another night; I’ll not indulge the lazy scoundrel any longer, Yet the poor old fellow nursed me when a child. I’ll compromise the matter—I’ll knock, and let myself in.” So saying, Collumpsion thumped away at the door, looked around to see that he was unobserved, applied his latch-key, and slipped into his house just as old John, in a state of great alarm and undress, was descending the stairs with a candle and a boot-jack.