“Be my wife! dear Elizabeth,” the widower continues. “Continue to watch over the children, who shall be motherless no more.” “Frederick! Frederick! haven’t they got _us_?” shrieks one of the old ladies. “Oh, my poor dear Lady Baker!” says Mrs. Bonnington. “Oh, my poor dear Mrs. Bonnington!” says Lady Baker. “Frederick, listen to your mother,” implores Mrs. Bonnington. “To your mothers!” sobs Lady Baker. And they both go down on their knees, and I heard a boohoo of a guffaw behind the green-baized servants’ door, where I have no doubt Mons. Bedford was posted. “Ah! Batchelor, dear Batchelor, speak to him!” cries good Mrs. Bonny. “We are praying this child, Batchelor—this child whom you used to know at College, and when he was a good, gentle, obedient boy. You have influence with my poor Frederick. Exert it for his heart-broken mother’s sake; and you shall have my bubble-uble-essings, you shall.” “My dear good lady,” I exclaim—not liking to see the kind soul in grief. “Send for Doctor Straightwaist! Order him to pause in his madness,” cries Baker; “or it is I, Cecilia’s mother, the mother of that murdered angel, that shall go mad.” “Angel! _Allons_, I say. Since his widowhood, you have never given the poor fellow any peace. You have been for ever quarrelling with him. You took possession of his house; bullied his servants, spoiled his children—you did, Lady Baker.” “Sir,” cries her ladyship, “you are a low, presuming, vulgar man! Clarence, beat this rude man!” “Nay,” I say, “there must be no more quarrelling to-day. And I am sure Captain Baker will not molest me. Miss Prior, I am delighted that my old friend should have found a woman of good sense, good conduct, good temper—a woman who has had many trials, and borne them with very great patience, to take charge of him, and make him happy. I congratulate you both. Miss Prior has borne poverty so well that I am certain she will bear good fortune, for it _is_ good fortune to become the wife of such a loyal, honest, kindly gentleman as Frederick Lovel.”