“He said he thinks you have got a bad temper,” continued his wife. “He thinks, perhaps, it's indigestion, caused by eating cheese for supper always.” Mr. Hatchard affected not to hear, and, lighting his pipe, listened fer some time to the hum of conversation between his wife and Mr. Sadler below. With an expression of resignation on his face that was almost saintly he knocked out his pipe at last and went to bed. Half an hour passed, and he was still awake. His wife's voice had ceased, but the gruff tones of Mr. Sadler were still audible. Then he sat up in bed and listened, as a faint cry of alarm and the sound of somebody rushing upstairs fell on his ears. The next moment the door of his room burst open, and a wild figure, stumbling in the darkness, rushed over to the bed and clasped him in its arms. “Help!” gasped his wife's voice. “Oh, Alfred! Alfred!” “Ma'am!” said Mr. Hatchard in a prim voice, as he struggled in vain to free himself. “I'm so—so—fr-frightened!” sobbed Mrs. Hatchard. “That's no reason for coming into a lodger's room and throwing your arms round his neck,” said her husband, severely. “Don't be stu-stu-stupid,” gasped Mrs. Hatchard. “He—he's sitting downstairs in my room with a paper cap on his head and a fire-shovel in his hand, and he—he says he's the—the Emperor of China.” “He? Who?” inquired her husband. “Mr. Sad-Sadler,” replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him. “He made me kneel in front o' him and keep touching the floor with my head.” The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly emotion. “Well, it's nothing to do with me,” he said at last. “He's mad,” said his wife, in a tense whisper; “stark staring mad. He says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead.” The bed shook again. “I don't see that I have any right to interfere,” said Mr. Hatchard, after he had quieted the bedstead. “He's your lodger.” “You're my husband,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Ho!” said Mr. Hatchard. “You've remembered that, have you?” “Yes, Alfred,” said his wife. “And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?” demanded Mr. Hatchard. Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved her to speech. “Ye-yes,” she sobbed. “And you want me to take you back?” queried the generous Mr. Hatchard. “Ye-ye-yes,” said his wife. Mr. Hatchard got out of bed and striking a match lit the candle, and, taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, put it on and marched downstairs. Mrs. Hatchard, still trembling, followed behind. “What's all this?” he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish. Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw the unkempt figure of Mr. Hatchard with the scared face of Mrs. Hatchard peeping over his shoulder, his face grew red, his eyes watered, and his cheeks swelled.