“It ain't nonsense,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “If you want to go, go. I don't want to keep you.” “I only wish I could,” said her husband, wistfully. “There's the door,” said Mrs. Hatchard, pointing. “What's to prevent you?” “And have you going to the magistrate?” observed Mr. Hatchard. “Not me,” was the reply. “Or coming up, full of complaints, to the ware-house?” “Not me,” said his wife again. “It makes my mouth water to think of it,” said Mr. Hatchard. “Four years ago I hadn't a care in the world.” “Me neither,” said Mrs. Hatchard; “but then I never thought I should marry you. I remember the first time I saw you I had to stuff my handkerchief in my mouth.” “What for?” inquired Mr. Hatchard. “Keep from laughing,” was the reply. “You took care not to let me see you laugh,” said Mr. Hatchard, grimly. “You were polite enough in them days. I only wish I could have my time over again; that's all.” “You can go, as I said before,” said his wife. “I'd go this minute,” said Mr. Hatchard, “but I know what it 'ud be: in three or four days you'd be coming and begging me to take you back again.” “You try me,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. “I can keep myself. You leave me the furniture—most of it is mine—and I sha'n't worry you again.” “Mind!” said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. “If I go, I never come back again.” “I'll take care of that,” said his wife, equably. “You are far more likely to ask to come back than I am.” Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on by a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage and, putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway regarding her. “I've a good mind to take you at your word,” he said, at last. “Good-night,” said his wife, briskly. “If you send me your address, I'll send your things on to you. There's no need for you to call about them.” Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards he began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning; before he had walked fifty he was certain of it. He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to get his breakfast elsewhere. It was the longest day in Mr. Hatchard's experience, and, securing modest lodgings that evening, he overslept himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in ten years.