“I wonder, though,” she continued doubtfully, looking round the room as she spoke, “who would take such a house as this?” “Did you never hear Cowper’s line,” said he, quickly— “‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’” “I’m sure I’ve not the least objection to trying—nay, I’m much obliged to you for letting me—” “Not with the house,” put in he, quite smartly. “Of course not—how funny you are! But I haven’t the least idea about these things.” “Your kind friend, Mrs. Cheerlove, can doubtless supply you with an idea or two—she has plenty of her own.” “Oh, yes. Well then, Mrs. Cheerlove, what steps should you recommend?” “Oh, it is a very simple affair. Tell Mr. Norris, the house-agent, that you want to let your house, furnished, for the autumn, at such a price; and that it can be seen at such and such hours. Or, if you prefer it, you can put up a bill.” “Dear me, yes! I think I’ll do both! How clever you are! So practical!” “Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said Mr. Ringwood, with a shrug and a smile, “it’s we literary people who are the practical ones after all!” Then she began to consider how many beds she could make up, and what she should leave, what she should take, and what she should lock up; whether she should allow the use of the piano, and whether the pictures should be covered; till her husband impatiently cried— “Oh, hang the pictures!” and then laughed at his ridiculous exclamation. “But really, Emma,” continued he, “you need not give Mrs. Cheerlove a list of all the cracked wine-glasses.” “I haven’t a list to give,” said she with simplicity. “Perhaps it would be well if I kept one.” “You must make an inventory now, at any rate. Set about it this morning—it will keep you amused for a week.” “My dear Alfred, you are always finding things for _me_ to do, instead of yourself. You forget the baby.” “You take good care, my dear, I shall not do that. Mrs. Cheerlove, how I do wish we could enlist you amongst us!” “As what?” said I, amazed. “As a contributor. Oh, you need not look so conscious!—murder _will out_. I know you write. Now, do give me—poor, toil-worn editor as I am—some little assistance. On public and local affairs, of course, I want no aid; what I desire is historical anecdote, biographical sketches, traits of character and experience—all that sort of _materiel_ for thought which may or may not be used, according to the will of the reader—pleased with the thing as it stands, but not always disposed to carry it on.” He spoke earnestly and well. “You do me great honour,” said I, “but, I assure you, you are quite mistaken in me. I could not afford you the help you need.” “Why—they said you wrote throughout your long illness!” “Whoever _they_ may he, I can assure you, I only used my pen in hours of solitude, as a companion; nothing more.” “But its results!——”